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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

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Madame de Se'vigne, 


LOVE IN LETTERS; 


ILLUSTRATED IN THE 


CORRESPONDENCE OF EMINENT PERSONS; 


WITH 

\ 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE WRITERS. 

v' 

BY JAMES GRANT WILSON, D. C. L. 

AUTHOR OF 

BRYANT AND HIS FRIENDS,” “ LIFE OF GEN’L U. S. GRANT,” 

ETC., ETC. 

Illustrated with Eight Portraits . 

“Do you like letter-reading? If you do 
I have some twenty dozen very pretty ones.” 

. > * r - . 

,/0, v , r . 

AUG 1L0 1 «§€ 

NEW YORK: 

Copyright, 1896, by 

G. IV. Dillingham Co., Publishers . 

MDCCCXCVI. 

[All Rights reserved.^ 


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PHsho 

-LiVjs 

1836 










i 


















































PREFACE 


It may safely be asserted that of all the varieties into which episto- 
lary correspondence may be divided, the greatest interest attaches to 
what are known as Love-letters. No other form of epistle possesses 
the same charm. To read them is to the old like a resurrection of 
their youth, reviving memories of Arcadian days: while to those in 
life’s green spring, they offer an opportunity of acquiring from the ex- 
perience of others, some knowledge of the pleasant pursuit of love-ma- 
king. Of the many celebrated men and women whose letters are intro- 
duced in this collection, none are now living; most of them have been 
long dead. Did we permit ourselves to introduce the epistles of those 
still among us, in which is told the story of their passion, or include 
in our volume the imaginary love-letters that grace the pages of nov- 
elists and essayists, we should groan under Vembarras des richesses. 
A few of the letters contained in the collection are not, strictly speak- 
ing, love epistles, but are introduced as descriptive of wooings and 
marriages in by-gone days. In the selections from the correspon- 
dence of the earliest of English letter-writers, worthy old Howell, is 
told the story of the courtship of Charles the First, when Prince of 
Wales; the accomplished Madame de Sevigne', authoress of those ad- 
mirable and fascinating letters, so simple and so faithful, and upon 
which her fame is raised, describes a love affair of two hundred 
years ago; the quaint and garrulous Pepys, prince of diarists, relates 
the story of a curious wedding between a Blue-coat boy, and a Blue- 


VI 


PREFACE. 


coat girl in Christ’s Hospital, London; Hannah More, of whom Horace 
Smith says, that on a certain occasion, 

Sydney Morgan was playing the organ, 

While behind the vestry door, 

Horace Twiss was snatching a kiss 
From the lips of Hannah More ! 

(Oh ! monstrous calumny ! to charge the grave old lady with be- 
ing kissed ‘ on the sly,” and in church time!) describes a royal 
marriage at the Court of St. James : dear Charles Lamb tells us in 
his inimitable manner of the effect produced on his friend Emma 
Isola, by the receipt of a watch from her lover; the stately Web- 
ster, in a note to a young lady, unbends sufficiently to give an 
amusing account of an interview he held with her bonnet; and 
poor Keats, in a letter to a friend, when on his death-bed writes, 
of “ Charmian, with her rich Eastern look,” — the object of his 
hopeless passion. Many of the undying memorials of affection 
contained in this volume, have never before been published in this 
country, nor are we aware of any similar collection ever having 
appeared on this side of the Atlantic. In the best of the many books 
of letters which have been issued by the American press, wo fail to 
find a single love epistle. The Editor therefore trusts that these 
gems, gleaned from so many different sources, and placed in a casket 
by themselves, will be welcomed alike by those who have made love, 
and those who expect to make it, as well as by such persons as do 
not come within either classification, but yet can find pleasure in 
reading of the loves of others — loves rivalling that of Petrarch in 
purity, and that of Tasso in interest. 


JAS GRANT WILSON. 


CONTENTS 


PAGH 

Abelard and Heloise 9 

Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn 35 

E li z a beth to Admiral Seymour 42 

James Howell to a Friend 45 

Ninon de L’Enclos to Marquis de Seyigne 54 

Madame de Seyigne to Madame de Coulanges 92 

Charles n, to Catherine of Braganza 99 

Samuel Pepys to Mrs. Steward 101 

Marianna D’Alcaforada to Chamtlly 108 

Lord Grey and Lady Berkeley 150 

Lady Russell to Lord Russell 157 

Swift, Stella, Yanessa, and Varina 160 

Richard Steele to Mary Scurlock 175 

E. W. Montagu and Lady Pierrepont. 187 

Alexander Pope and Lady Montagu 209 

Diderot to Sophia Voland 219 

Lawrence Sterne to Miss Lumley 224 

Julia de L’Espinesse to M. de Guibert 231 

Klopstock and Meta Molleb 240 

Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale 247 

Mrs. Piozzi to W. A Conway 252 

Hannah More to her Sister 254 


Vm CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Gcethe and Bettine Brentano 258 

Mirabeau to Sophia de Monnier 268 

Nelson and Lady Hamilton 274 

Borns and Clarinda 281 

Napoleon to Josephine 289 

Sir Walter and Lady Scott 294 

Duke Sussex and Lady Murray 308 

Charles Lamb to Edward Moxon 312 

Ugo Foscolo to a Friend 315 

Hazlitt to Sarah Stoddabt 320 

Webster to Josephine Seaton 323 

Keats to Charles A. Brown 327 

Colonel Bechi to Giulietta Bechl 329 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

M adame de Se vign e Frontispiece , 

Heloise 9 

Anne Boleyn 35 

Ninon de L’Enclos. . 55 

Lady Rachel Russell 157 

Mrs. Piozzi 247 

Miss Hannah More 254 

Empress Josephine 289 





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HELOISE. 

























































































































































































LOVE IN LETTERS. 


ABELARD AND HELOISE. 

Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, 

That well-known name awakens all my woes. 

Oh name forever sad ! forever dear ! 

Still breath’d in sighs, still usher’d with a tear 1 

Alexander Pope. 

Among the thousands of pilgrims from every land who 
yearly visit the justly celebrated cemetery of Pere la 
Chaise, or “ City of the Dead,” there is probably no spot 
so often sought out as the tomb of Abelard and Helo'ise. 
Their beautiful monument is a small Gothic chapel built 
from the ruins of the Paraclete, the abbey founded by 
Abelard, and of which Helo'ise was the first abbess. On 
the marble couch within are two figures carved in the 
antique garb of the middle ages — “ counterfeit present- 
ments ” of the unfortunate lovers, whose story after the 
lapse of seven centuries has lost none of its interest. 
Here on the jour des morts hundreds of wreaths of im- 
mortelles are thrown over the railing, which protects the 
tomb, and prevents the too ardent admirers of the mod- 
els of constancy and undying devotion from chipping off 
pieces of the Paraclete as mementoes. Pierre Abelard, 
one of the most illustrious of the mediaeval school-men, 
was born in 1079, of a noble family at Palais, near Nantes, 
in Brittany. The stirring events of his chequered life, 
and especially his world-renowned attachment to Helo'ise 


10 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


and its melancholy fruits, have thrown a peculiar and ro- 
mantic charm round the name of the pious Peter. From 
his youth he devoted himself to study, and throughout 
his whole career, he was at no pains to conceal his con- 
scious possession of great ability. Soon after his appear- 
ance in Paris, at the age of twenty, he rivalled and eclipsed 
his tutor, and ere long became a successful teacher of 
philosophy. He afterwards studied theology, under An- 
selm, at Laon, and returning to Paris he opened a School 
of Divinity, which immediately enjoyed an unrivalled 
popularity. Thousands of pupils from every part of 
Europe assembled around the eloquent and handsome 
teacher ; and as he passed through the streets, crowds 
flocked after him, and women from their windows gazed 
at him. In his school was educated one pope, nineteen 
cardinals, and above fifty bishops. He was also a poet 
and an accomplished musician, whose love-songs were 
heard in bowers and courtly halls, in cloister and village 
cabaret. Such was Abelard when he first met Heloi'se, 
“who loved like St. Theresa, wrote like Seneca, and 
whose grace was so irresistible that it charmed even St. 
Bernard himself.” She was an orphan, and a niece of 
Canon Fulbert, one of the Parisian ecclesiastics, with 
whom she resided. At this time she was a lovely girl of 
eighteen, and had been highly educated at the convent of 
Argenteuil. She possessed an ardent imagination, great 
strength of character, a knowledge of language, and a 
talent for writing. Fulbert was anxious that his niece 
should profit by the teaching of Abelard, by whom her 
studies were directed, chiefly by correspondence, and in 
an evil hour it was proposed that Abelard should reside 
in Fulbert’s house ; the result was that a mutual attach- 
ment sprung up between the master and his pupil. He 
composed songs in which the name of Heloi'se figured ; 
their beautiful harmony made them popular with the 


ABELARD AND HELOISE. 


11 


humblest ; her name was wafted everywhere, and became 
as celebrated as her lover’s. Heloise conceived of no 
higher honor than that of being preferred by Abelard, 
and forgot her own glory in that of her lover. Abelard 
neglected everything in his love for Heloise ; all love of 
study, all desire for glory were extinguished in his soul. 
He discharged his duties with the greatest repugnance ; 
he repeated his old lectures even without revision. His 
pupils saw this change in their master with the utmost 
consternation ; the world of philosophy was in despair. 
Fulbert was the last to believe in what was going on ; 
but when he recognized the true state of things, his grief 
and indignation knew no bounds. A separation of the 
lovers took place, but this only increased their love. 
Heloise communicated to Abelard the intelligence that 
she would soon become a mother ; upon which he con- 
veyed her to Brittany, and placed her in the care of his 
sister, where she gave birth to a son. To appease the un- 
cle’s wrath, Abelard proposed to marry Heloise, provided 
the knowledge of the marriage was kept secret ; other- 
wise it would prove a bar to his preferment in the church. 
Heloise, more anxious for his welfare than for her own 
honor, strongly resisted this proposed marriage, and only 
consented with the greatest reluctance. The marriage 
took place, but the lovers had to live apart. The secret 
was, however, soon divulged by Fulbert. Yet Heloise 
always denied that she was married ; and this so irritated 
her uncle that Abelard was under the necessity of shel- 
tering her from liis resentment in the nunnery of Argen- 
teuil. Fulbert suspected that Abelard wished to compel 
Heloise to take the veil, in order to get her out of the 
way ; thereupon he formed a plot against him, and em- 
ployed two bravos to perpetrate a disgraceful mutilation 
on his person. After this cruel injury, Abelard saw no 
asylum but the cloister, but he could not endure the idea 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


12 

of Heloise being free, and therefore required her to take 
the veil. Her friends and relations endeavored to dis- 
suade her from this sacrifice, but this generous woman, 
thinking only of her husband, his wishes and peace of 
mind, wept and sobbed only for him, not for herself ; and 
hastening to the altar, took the veil : thus the jealous 
feeling of Abelard that no one else should ever possess 
her was appeased. The dark walls of the cloister closed 
around the devoted Heloise, and the Abbey of St. Denis 
received as a monk the unfortunate Abelard. Dissension 
and strife arising in the monastery, Abelard quitted it, 
and retired to a solitary spot on the small river Ardisson, 
in the territory of Troyes, where he built an oratory of 
wickerwork and thatch. When this became known to 
his scholars, they flocked to him from all quarters, living 
in huts which they built for themselves on the banks of 
the river. They afterwards enlarged the oratory with 
more solid materials, timber and stone. Here Abelard 
was at length consoled and comforted. He changed the 
title of the oratory to Paraclete, or Comforter. Subse- 
quently he became Abbot of St. Gildas, of Buys, near 
Vannes, in Brittany. Meanwhile, neglected and appar- 
ently forgotten by Abelard, Heloise had not sunk under 
the bitterness of her grief, but gradually rose in estima- 
tion by her conduct and attainments till she became pri- 
oress of Argenteuil. But a rapacious abbot setting up 
a claim to the convent, she and her nuns had to leave it. 
It was then that Abelard recollected his wife. He offered 
to her as an asylum the now deserted Paraclete, to which 
Heloise and her nuns removed, and she became abbess. 
Here, also, she gained universal good opinion. The 
bishops loved her as their daughter, the abbots as their 
sister, the laymen as their mother ; and all reverenced her 
devotion, her patience, and sweetness of behavior. 
About this time Abelard addressed his famous letter to 


ABELARD AND HELOISE. 


13 


a Mend, giving a narative of his eventful and unhappy 
life. A copy fell into the hands of the fair Heloise, and 
was the exciting cause of the celebrated letters which 
passed between the unfortunate lovers. Worn out 
by care, persecution and infirmities, Abelard at length 
took refuge in the priory of St. Marcel, where he died, 
in the sixty-third year of his age. His body was interred 
at Cluni ; was afterwards removed to the Paraclete ; and 
twenty-one years later, Heloise was, by her own re- 
quest, buried by his side. 

In Pope’s exquisite poem he gives a touching picture 
of the rapture, despair and penitence of the poor dis- 
tracted nun. Beautiful is the passage in which she pre- 
figures a visit yet to come from Abelard to herself — no 
more in the character of a lover, but as a priest, minis- 
tering by spiritual consolations to her dying hours, point- 
ing her thoughts to heaven, presenting the Cross to her 
through the mists of death, and fighting for her as a 
spiritual ally against the torments of flesh. That an- 
ticipation was not gratified. Abelard died long before 
her ; and the hour never arrived for him of which with 
such tenderness she says — 

“It will be then no crime to gaze on me.” 

But another anticipation has been fulfilled in a degree 
that she could hardly have contemplated ; the anticpa- 
tion, namely, 

‘ * That ages hence, when all her woes were o’er, 

And that rebellious heart should beat no more,” 

wandering feet should be attracted from afar 

‘ « To Paraclete’s white walls and silver springs, ” 

as the common resting-place and everlasting marriage- 
bed of Abelard and Heloise ; that the eyes of many 


14 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


that had been touched by their story, by the memory of 
their extraordinary accomplishments in an age of dark- 
ness, and by the calamitous issue of their attachment, 
should seek, first and last, for the grave in which the 
lovers trusted to meet again in peace ; and should seek it 
with interest so absorbing, that even amidst the ascent of 
hosannahs from the choir, amidst the grandeurs of high 
mass, the raising of the host, and “ the pomp of dreadful 
sacrifice,” sometimes these wandering eyes should steal 
aside to the solemn abiding-place of Abelard and his 
Heloise, offering so pathetic a contrast, by its peaceful si- 
lence, to the agitations of their lives : and that there, 
amidst thoughts which by right were all due and dedi- 
cated 

“ to heaven, 

One human tear should drop and be forgiven.” 

The tradition of Quincey, the parish near Nogen t sur 
Seine, in which the Paraclete is situated, was, that the 
moment the corpse of Heloise touched the body of Abe- 
lard, the arm of the latter was encircled around the waist 
of his deceased bride. There is only one objection to 
this pleasant legend, but that is fatal to its truth. The 
body of Heloise was placed in a separate coffin, and could 
not, by any possibility, have come in contact with the 
person of Abelard. Their ashes lay undisturbed for 
three hundred years ; but in 1497 they were transferred 
to the church of the abbey, then in 1800 removed to the 
garden of the Musee Fra^ais, in Paris, and finally in 
1817 were deposited in Pere la Chaise. On their tomb is 
a Latin inscription, singularly solemn in its brief sim- 
plicity, which may be translated thus : — “ Here, under the 
same marble, lie Peter Abelard, the founder of this 
monastery, and the Abbess Heloise, formerly united in 
study, talent, love, disastrous marriage, and repentance ; 
now, as we hope, in everlasting happiness. Peter Abe-* 


HEL0I8E TO ABELAKD. 


15 


lard died April 21, 1142 ; Heloise May 17, 1163. Erected 
by Charlotte de Boncy, Abbess of the Paraclete, 1779. ” 


L 

HELOISE TO ABELARD. 

A letter of consolation you had written to a friend, my 
dearest Abelard, was lately, as by chance, placed in my 
hands. The superscription told me at once from whom it 
came; and the sentiments I felt for the writer compelled 
me to read it most eagerly. I had lost the reality ; I 
hoped, therefore, from your words, a faint image of your- 
self, to derive some comfort. But alas ! I remember only 
too well almost every line was marked with gall and 
wormwood. It related only the lamentable story of our 
intercourse, and the long list of your own unabating suf- 
ferings. 

Indeed, you amply fulfill the promise you there made 
to your friend, that, in comparison with your own, his 
misfortunes should appear as nothing, or as light as air. 
.... Who, think you, could read or hear these things, 
and not be moved to tears ? What, then, must be my 
situation ? The rare precision with which each event is 
related could but more strongly renew my grief. I was 
doubly agitated, because I perceived the tide of danger 
was still rising against you. Are we, then, to despair of 
your life? And must our hearts, trembling at every 
sound, be constantly alarmed by terrible rumors ? 

For Christ’s sake, my Abelard, who, I trust, still pro- 
tects you, do inform us, and that continually, of each 
circumstance of your present dangers. I and my sisters 
alone, of all your friends, remain true to you. Let us, 
at least, partake of your joys and sorrows. Our condo- 
lence may bring some relief to your sufferings ; a load 
borne on many shoulders is more easily supported. But 
should the storm subside ever so little, then be even more 
solicitous to inform us, for your letters will be messengers 


16 


LOVE IN LETTERS 


of joy. In short, whatever be their contents, to us they 
must always bring comfort ; because this, at least, they 
will tell us, that we are remembered by you. 

How pleasing are the letters of absent friends. Seneca, 
I remember, teaches us by his own example. “ I thank 
you,” he says to his friend Lucilius, “ for your frequent 
letters. By this you do all you can to be in my company. 
The moment I open your letters I see Lucilius before me.” 
And, indeed, if the portraits of our friends can give us 
pleasure, and ease the pain of absence, by the weak im- 
pressions they make, what may not be said of letters 
which utter the genuine feelings of a dear absent friend ? 
God be thanked ! no invidious passion can forbid, and no 
obstacle can hinder this manner of your being present 
with us. Let no indifference on your part, I pray, re- 
tard it. 

My Abelard, you well know how much I lost in losing 
you ; and that infamous act of treachery, which, by a 
cruelty before unheard of, deprived me of you, even tore me 
from myself. The loss was indeed great, but the manner 
of it was doubly excruciating. When the cause of grief 
is most pungent, then should Consolation apply her 
strongest remedies. But it is you only who can adminis- 
ter relief : by you I was wounded, and by you I must be 
healed. It is in your power alone to give me pain, to 
give me joy, and to give me comfort. And it is you only 
that are obliged to do it. I have strictly obeyed all your 
commands ; and so far was I unable to oppose them, that 
to comply with your wish I could bear to sacrifice myself. 
One thing remains, which is still greater, and will hardly 
be credited ; my love for you had risen to such a degree 
of frenzy, that to please you it even deprived itself of 
what alone in the universe it valued, and that for ever. 
No sooner did I receive your commands than I quitted at 
once the habit of the world, and with it all the reluctance 
of my nature. I meant that you should be the sole pos- 
sessor of whatever I had once a right to call my own. 

Heaven knows ! in all my love it was you, and you 
only, I sought for. I looked for no dowry, no splendid 
alliances — I was even indifferent to my own pleasures ; 
nor had I a will to gratify. Everything was absorbed in 
you. * * * The more I humbled myself before you, the 
greater right, I thought, I should have to your favor j 


HELOISE TO ABELARD. 17 

and thus, also, I hoped the less to injure the splendid 
reputation you had acquired. 

The woman who prefers a rich to a poor man shows 
she has a venal soul. In a husband, it is his wealth, and 
not himself she admires ; and to her who marries with 
this view some reward may be due, but no gratitude. It 
is clear that I do not misconstrue her intentions ; for 
propose but a richer match, and, if not too late, she will 
embrace it with ardor. The truth of my opinion the 
learned Aspasia has confirmed in a conversation with 
Xenophon and his wife, as related by Eschines, the dis- 
ciple of Socrates. When to effect a reconciliation between 
them she had proposed this reasoning, Aspasia thus con- 
cludes : “ When you have got so far as mutually to be 
convinced that there lives not a better man and a more 
fortunate woman, all your thoughts will be directed to 
produce the greatest good ; Xenophon will be happy in 
the reflection that he is married to the best of women, 
and she, on her side, that her husband is the best of 
men.” 

These sentiments are beautiful ; they seem the produc- 
tion rather of Wisdom herself than of Philosophy. But 
in the married state, should this favorable opinion be 
even grounded on error, how charming is it to be thus 
deceived ! It produces love, and on this rests the surest 
pledge of mutual fidelity ; while purity of mind co-oper- 
ates far more efficaciously than her sister virtue. 

But that happiness which in others is sometimes the 
effect of fancy, in me was the child of evidence. They 
might think their husbands perfect, and were happy in 
the idea ; but I knew you were such, and the universe 
knew the same. Thus the more my affection was secured 
from all possible error, the more steady became its flame. 
Where was found the king or the philosopher that had 
emulated your reputation ? Was there a village, a city, a 
kingdom, that did not ardently wish to see you ? When 
you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you ? 
And when you withdrew, every neck was stretched, every 
eye sprang forward to follow you. The women, married, 
and unmarried, when Abelard was away, longed for his 
return : and when he was present, every bosom was on 
fire. No lady of distinction, no princess, even, that did 
not envy Heloi'se the possession of her Abelard 


18 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


You possessed, indeed, two qualifications — a tone of 
voice, and a grace in singing — which gave you the control 
over every female heart. These powers were peculiarly 
yours ; for I do not know that they ever fell to the share 
of any other philosopher. To soften, by playful amuse- 
ments the stern labors of philosophy, you composed 
several sonnets on Love, and on similar subjects. These 
you were often heard to sing, when the harmony of your 
voice gave new charms to the expression. In all circles 
nothing was talked of but Abelard : even the most ig- 
norant, who could not judge of harmony, were enchanted 
by the melody of your voice. Female hearts were unable 
to resist the impression. Thus was my name soon carried 
to distant nations, for the loves of Heloise and Abelard 
were the constant theme of all your songs. What won- 
der, then, that I became the subject of general envy ! 
You possessed, besides, every endowment of mind and 
body. But alas ; if my happiness then raised the envy 
of others, will they not now be constrained to pity 
me ? And surely, even she, who was then my enemy, 
will now drop a tear at my sad reverse of fortune. 

You know, Abelard, I was the sole cause of your mis- 
fortunes ; but yet I was not guilty. It is the motive 
with which we act, and not the event of things, that 
makes us criminal. Equity weighs the intention, and 
not the mere actions we have done. What, at all times, 
were my dispositions in your regard, you only, who knew 
them, can judge. To you I refer all my actions, and on 
your decision I rest my cause. I call no other witness. 

But how has it happened, let me ask, that after my re- 
tirement from the world, which was your own work, I 
have been so forgotten or so neglected, that you never 
came either personally to recreate my solitude, or ever 
wrote to console me ? Account for this conduct, if you 
can ; or must I tell you my suspicions, which are also the 
general suspicions of the world. It was passion, Abel- 
ard, and not friendship, that drew you to me ; it was not 
love, but a baser propensity. The incitements to pleas- 
ure removed, every other more gentle sentiment, to 
which they might seem to give life, has vanished with 
them. 

This, my friend, is not st) much mine, as the general 
conjecture. It is the common suspicion of all who know 


HELOISE TO ABELARD. 


19 


us. Would to God it were only I wlio thought it ; and 
that your own love could devise some excuse which 
might ease my pain! Were it in my power, even I 
would willingly invent some pretext, which by seeming 
to lessen the pretentions I have to your notice, might ex- 
tenuate your fault. 

Pray attend to my request ; you will find it, I think, 
both moderate and easy to comply with. I am not to 
have the happiness of your company, give me therefore 
what else you can. I ask but a few lines, and can you, 
who are so rich in words, refuse me that faint image of 
yourself? What reason have I to expect you will be 
more liberal in things of consequence, if even you show 
yourself niggardly in a few words ? Having, as I said, 
complied with all your injunctions, I thought, indeed, I 
had great pretensions to your esteem. Even at this mo- 
ment I am a victim to your will. It was not religion 
that called me to the austerities of the cloister ; I was 
then in the bloom of youth, but you commanded it, 
and I obeyed. For this sacrifice, if I have no merit in 
your eyes, vain indeed is all my labor ! From God I can 
look for no reward, for whose sake, it is plain, I have as 
yet done nothing. When you had resolved to quit the 
world, I followed you, or rather, I ran before you. It 
seems you had the image of the patriarch’s wife before 
your eyes : and feared I might look back, and therefore 
before you would surrender your own liberty, I was to 
be sacrificed. In that one instance, I confess, your mis- 
trust of me rent my heart. Abelard, I blushed for you. 
For my part, heaven knows ! had I seen you hastening 
to perdition, at a single nod, I should not have hesitated 
to have preceded, or to have followed you. My soul was 
no longer in my own possession. It was in yours. Even 
now, if it is not with you, it is nowhere. It cannot exist 
without you. But do receive it kindly. There it will be 
happy, if it find you indulgent ; if you only return kind - 
ness for kindness, trifles for things of moment, and a few 
words for all the deeds of my life. Were you less sure 
of my love, you would be more solicitous. But because 
my conduct has rendered you secure, you neglect me. 
Once more recollect what I have done for you, and how 
much you are indebted to me. 

While together we enjoyed the happiness of loving 


20 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


each other ; the motive of my attachment was to others 
uncertain. The event has proved on what principles I 
started. To obey you, I sacrificed all my pleasures. I 
reserved nothing, the hope only excepted, that so I 
should become more perfectly yours. How unjust then 
is Abelard, if, as my deserts increase, he makes the less 
return ! I ask but trifles, and trifles which require no 
labor to be complied with. 

By that God, then, to whom your life is consecrated, I 
conjure you, give so much of yourself as is at your dis- 
posal ; that is, send me some lines of consolation. Do it 
with this design at least, that my mind being more at 
ease, I may serve God with more alacrity. When 
formerly the love of pleasure was your pursuit, how 
often did I hear from you ! In your songs, the name of 
Heloi'se was made familiar to every tongue ; it was heard 
in every street ; the walls of every house echoed it. 
Weigh then your obligations ; think on my petition. I 
have written you a long letter, but the conclusion shall be 
short. My only friend, farewell. 


n. 

ABELARD TO HELOISE. 

If since our conversion from the world to God, I have 
not written to console or to admonish you, it was not the 
result of indifference. Ascribe it to the high opinion I 
have ever entertained of your wisdom and prudence. 
How could I think, that she stood in need of my assist- 
ance, to whom heaven had so largely distributed its best 
gifts ? You were able, I know, by example as by word, 
to instruct the ignorant, to comfort the weak, and to ad- 
monish the lukewarm. 

When prioress of Argenteuil, these duties, I remember, 
you used long ago to practice ; and if now you give the 
same attention to your daughters, as you did then to 
your sisters, more is not requisite, and all that I could 
say would be of no value. But if in your humility you 


ABELAED TO HELOlSE. 


21 


think otherwise, and that my instructions can avail you 
anything, tell me only, on what subjects you would have 
me write, and as God shall direct me, I will endeavor to 
satisfy you. 

I thank God that, exciting in your heart an anxious 
solicitude for the constant and imminent dangers to 
which I am exposed, he has taught you to sympathize 
with my sufferings. Thus may I hope for the divine pro- 
tection by your prayers, and soon see Satan bruised 
under my feet. It is with this view that I hasten to send 
you the form of prayer you so earnestly requested, you, 
my sister, once dear to me in the world, but now most 
dear to me in Christ. By this means you will offer to 
God a constant sacrifice of prayers, urging him to par- 
don our great and manifold sins, and to avert the hourly 
dangers which threaten me. 

Many examples attest how powerful before God and his 
saints are the prayers of the faithful ; but chiefly of 
women for their friends, and of wives for their husbands. 
In this view, the Apostle admonishes us to pray without 
intermission. . . . But I will not insist on the supplica- 
tions of your sisterhood, day and night devoted to the 
service of their Maker, to you only I apply. I well know 
how powerful your intercession may be ; and in my pres- 
ent circumstances I trust it will be exerted. In your 
prayers, then, ever remember him who in an especial 
manner is yours. Urge your entreaties, for it is just that 
you should be heard. An equitable judge cannot re- 
fuse it. 

When formerly I was with you, you recollect, my dear 
Heloi'se, how fervently you recommended me to the care 
of Providence. Often in the day a special prayer was 
offered up for me. Removed as I am now from the Para- 
clete, and involved in great danger, how much more 
pressing are my wants ! Now then convince me of the 
sincerity of your regard. I entreat, I implore you. 

But if, by the will of heaven, my enemies should so far 
prevail as to take away my life; or if by any chance I 
should be numbered with the dead, it is my prayer that 
my body be conveyed to the Paraclete. There my 
daughters, or rather my sisters in Christ, turning their 
eyes often to my tomb, will more strongly be excited to 
petition heaven for me. And indeed, to a mind pene- 


22 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


trated with grief, and stricken by the dark view of its 
crimes, where can be found a resting-place, at once so 
safe, and so full of hope, as that which in a peculiar 
manner is dedicated to, and bears the name of Paraclete, 
which is, the Comforter ? Besides I know not where a 
Christian could find a better grave than in the society of 
holy women, consecrated to God. They, as the Gospel 
tells us, attended the interment of their divine master; 
they embalmed his body with precious perfumes, they 
followed him to the sepulchre, and there they watched 
in anxious solicitude. In return they were consoled with 
the first angelic apparition, announcing his resurrection, 
and many subsequent favors were conferred upon them. 
To conclude, it is my most earnest request that the solici- 
tude you now so strongly feel for the preservation of my 
life, you will then extend to the repose of my soul. Carry 
into my grave the same degree of love you showed me 
when alive, that is, never forget to petition heaven for me 
in your prayers. Heloise, live, and farewell ! Farewell, 
my sisters; live, but let it be in Christ! Bemember 
Abelard ! 


in. 

HELOISE TO ABELARD. 

I am surprised, my dearest Abelard, that contrary to 
the usual style of epistolary correspondence, and even 
contrary to the obvious order of things, you would pre- 
sume, in the very front of your salutations, to place my 
name before your own. It was giving woman a prefer- 
ence to a man, a wife to her husband, a nun to a monk 
and a priest, and a deaconess to an abbot. Decency and 
propriety require that, when we write to our superiors or 
our equals, the names of those to whom we write, should 
have the first place. But in writing to inferiors, those 
are first mentioned who are first in dignity. 

It was also a subject to us of much astonishment that, 
at the moment we expected consolation from you, then 
was our sorrow to be augmented. You should have dried 
our tears; but you preferred to make them flow still 


HELOIgE TO ABELARD. 


23 


faster. F or which of us could read with dry eyes, those 
concluding words of your letter : — “ But if, by the will of 
heaven, my enemies should so far prevail as to take away 
my life,” etc. Oh Abelard ! how could your mind suggest 
such ideas : how could your hand write them ? No, no ; 
God cannot so far forsake his servants, as to perpetuate 
our lives, when you aie gone. He will not give us that 
kind of existence, which is ten times worse than death. 
It belongs to you to celebrate our obsequies, and to com- 
mend our souls to God. It is you. It was you who 
gathered us here together in His name ; you must first 
dispose of us, then no longer anxious on our own account, 
and more secure in our salvation, you may follow us with 
more alacrity. 

Pray, in future, be more guarded in your expressions. 
Already, alas ! we are wretched enough. Why should 
you make us more so ? — why, before the hour, deprive us 
of that poor life we drag along with difficulty? Each 
day is sufficiently laden with its own misery ; and that 
last fatal one, covered with a robe of bitterness, will 
bring to each of us an ample share of sorrow. “ Why, 
then,” says Seneca, “ should we run in quest of evils, and 
die before our day ?” 

You request, should your death happen while absent 
from us, that your body be conveyed to the Paraclete ; 
for thus you think, with your image ever before us, to 
derive greater benefit from our prayers. Do you then 
imagine we can ever forget you? Or will that be a sea- 
son for prayer, when general consternation shall have 
banished every tranquil thought ; when reason will have 
lost its sway, and the tongue its utterance; when the 
mind, in frantic rage, rebelling against its maker, will not 
seek to pacify him by supplications, but rather to provoke 
his angel 1 by complaints ? On that sad day our sole oc- 
cupation will be to weep, but not to pray. We shall fol- 
low you ; we shall step into the tomb with you. How 
then are we to perform the last melancholy rites ? With 
you having lost the support of our lives, what will remain 
for us but death ? God grant that day may be our last ! 
If the mere mention of your death thus strikes us to the 
heart, what will not the reality do ? It is our prayer to 
heaven that we may not survive you, that we may never 
have to perform that office which we expect from your 
hands. 


24 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


Again let us entreat you to be more considerate for the 
sake of us all ; at least, on my account do refrain from 
all expressions which, like the shafts of death, penetrate 
my soul. The mind, worn down by grief, is a stranger to 
repose ; plunged in troubles, it is little able to think on 
God. To him you have devoted our lives ; and will you 
impede his service ? It were to be wished that every 
necessary event which brings sorrow with it, might take 
place when least expected ; for what cannot be avoided 
by human foresight, when permitted to torment us, only 
raises unavailing fears. But if I lose you, what have I 
to hope for ? You are my only comfort ; deprived of 
that, shall I still drag on my miserable pilgrimage ? But 
even in you, what comfort have I, save only the thought 
that you are still living ? All other joys are forbidden to 
me. I may not be allowed to see you, that my soul might 
sometimes, at least, return into its own bosom. 

May I be permitted to say that heaven has never ceased 
to be my relentless persecutor ? If you call it clemency, 
where is cruelty to be found ? Fortune, that savage des- 
tiny, has spent against me every arrow of her rage. She 
has none left to throw at others. Her quiver was full, 
and she exhausted it on me. Mortals have no longer 
cause to dread her. Nor if there were a shaft left would 
it find in Helo.ise a spot to light on. But though bleed- 
ing at every pore, my enemy does not stay her perse- 
cuting hand ; she suspends the last fatal stroke, and only 
fears lest my wounds prove mortal. Of all the wretched, 
I am the most forlorn and wretched ! Preferred by you 
to the rest of my sex, I rose to the most exalted dignity: 
thrown down from thence, my fate has been proportion- 
ately hard. He who falls from the greatest height falls 
with the greatest risk. Where was the woman of birth 
or power that fortune would have dared to compare with 
me ? In the possession of you my glory was unrivalled ; 
so is my disgrace in your privation. In prosperity and 
in adversity my life has known no measure. My happi- 
ness was unbounded, so is my affliction. Pondering over 
my melancholy state, I shed the more tears when I con- 
sider the magnitude of my losses ; but my tears redouble 
when I remember how dear those pleasures were which I 
have lost. To the greatest joys have succeeded the 
greatest sorrows. 


HELOISE TO ABELAED. 


25 


And that my condition, it seems, might be absolutely, 
desperate, even the common rules of equity have been 
perverted with regard to us. For while we pursued for- 
bidden pleasures, divine justice was indulgent to us. No 
sooner was this reformed, and the holy bond of marriage 
united us, than the hand of God came heavy on us. 

Having lowered yourself to raise me, and thus given 
dignity to me and all my family, what more could be re- 
quired ? All guilt was cancelled before God and man. 
Why was I born to be the occasion of so black a perfidy ? 
But such has ever been the baneful influence of women 
on the greatest men. Hence the caution of the wise man 
against us. 

Eve, our first mother, drove her husband from Para- 
dise. Heaven gave her to be his helpmate, but soon she 
became his destruction. Delilah was alone strong enough 
to vanquish that brave Nazarite, whose birth an angel had 
foretold. She delivered him to his enemies. When de- 
prived of sight, he was no longer able to support his load 
of misery; involved in one common ruin he expired with 
his enemies. Solomon, tip */ wisest of men, was so infatu- 
ated by a woman, the daughter of a king of Egypt, as 
even, in the decline of life, to become an idolater. In 
preference to his father, who was a just man, he had been 
chosen to build a temple to the Lord ; that Lord he had 
publicly announced by word and in writing, and he had 
taught his worship ; but that worship he deserted. Job, 
that man of piety, had to endure the severest of all his 
conflicts from his wife. She instigated him to curse God. 
The arch-tempter well knew, what experience had often 
taught him, that the most convenient way to destroy the 
husband was to employ the artifices of his wife. 

His usual malice he tried also upon us. He had failed 
in his attempt while our union was unlawful, therefore he 
had recourse to matrimony. He was not permitted, from 
our evil conduct, to work our ruin, but he drew it from a 
source which was holy. 

One consolation I have, however — and I thank heaven 
for it — that, unlike the women I have mentioned, I had 
no share in the crime that was committed. An occasion 
of it, indeed, I was ; but my mind did not co-operate. 
Yet, alas ! though in this sense unconscious of any guilt, 
do I know that my many antecedent sins were not the 
2 


26 


LOVE IN LETTER^. 


cause ? Here I may be criminal. Long bad I lived in 
the indulgence of my passions ; and thereby I justly 
merited what I suffer. To such evil beginnings must be 
ascribed so disastrous an event. God grant me strength 
to do ample penance for the sins that have been com- 
mitted ! May my sorrow, lengthened out to many days, 
bear some proportien to what you have suffered ! It is 
but just, and to it I consign my life. Thus, should not 
heaven be pacified, to Abelard at least I shall have made 
some atonement. 

I will disclose to you all the 'secret weaknesses of my 
unhappy heart. Tell me, then, can I hope to appease the 
Divine anger — I who, at every moment, am charging 
heaven with cruelty? My murmurs may draw on me 
greater vengeance; the sorrow, at least, of such a peni- 
tent will not avert it. But why do I talk of penitence ? 
While the mind retains all its former attachments to sin, 
what avails the external language of grief ? It is indeed 
easy to confess one’s faults; it is easy to put on the im- 
posing garb of penitence; but, oh God ! how hard it is to 
tear the mind from those affections which were once so 
dear ! For this reason, when the holy Job had said, “ I 
will loosen my tongue to speak against myself ;” that is, 
I will accuse myself of my faults, I will confess my sins, 
he immediately adds, “ I will speak in the bitterness of 
my soul.” These words the blessed Gregory has ex- 
pounded. “ There are many,” says he, “ who readily 
acknowledge their faults, but they know not what it is to 
grieve ; what should be a subject of tears they relate with 
a face of joy.” He therefore, who, in real detestation, 
declares his sins, must do it in the bitterness of his heart; 
his compunctions must at once punish what his tongue is 
made to utter. 

How rare this penitential sorrow is Saint Ambrose has 
also told us : “I have found more who have preserved 
their innocence, than who have recovered it by peni- 
tence.” So fascinating were the pleasures we once en- 
joyed, the thought of them cannot give me pain, nor can 
I efface their impression. Wherever I turn my eyes 
there are they present to me. Even in my dreams, the 
dear phantoms hover round me. During the celebration 
of the sacred mysteries, when the soul, on the wings of 
prayer, should rise more pure to heaven, the same im- 


HELOISE TO ABELARD. 


2 ? 


portunate ideas haunt my wretched soul; they seize every 
avenue to my heart. When I should grieve for what is 
past, I only sigh that the same pleasures return no more. 
My mind has been too faithful to its impressions; it holds 
up to the imagination every pleasing incident, and all the 
scenes of past joys play wantonly before me. 

I know the strong workings of my mind sometimes 
even betray themselves on my countenance. I am heard 
to utter words, which escape unthinkingly from me. 
How wretched is my condition ! To me, surely, may be 
applied those plaintive expressions of the Apostle — 
“ Miserable mortal that I am, who will free me from this 
body of death?” Could I but add with truth — “the 
grace of God through Jesus Christ our Lord.” 

This grace, my dearest Abelard, you are possessed of ; 
it has been peculiarly indulgent to you. Even the very 
circumstance which we consider as an instance of great 
severity, does but announce the paternal goodness of 
God. Like a skillful physician, who, to cure his patient, 
does not spare the knife, I have to combat the fervor of 
youth, and that burning flame which the indulgence of 
pleasure has raised within me. My arms are but that 
poor defence which weak female nature can supply. 

They who cannot look into my soul think me virtuous; 
they think me chaste because my external actions are 
such, when surely this amiable virtue only dwells within 
the mind. The world may praise me, but before God I 
am worthless. He is the searcher of hearts, and his eye 
penetrates into the inmost thoughts. I am deemed vir- 
tuous in an age when religion too generally wears the 
cloak of hypocrisy; when he is most loudly praised whose 
actions do not meet the public eye. 

Through the whole course of my life, heaven knows 
what have been my dispositions ! It was you, and not 
God, whom I feared most to offend; you, and not God, 
I was most anxious to please. My mind is still unaltered. 
It was not love of Him, but solely your command, that 
drew me to the cloister. How miserable then my con- 
dition, if, understanding so much, I have no prospect of 
a reward hereafter ! By external show, you, like others, 
have been deceived ; you ascribed to the pleasures of re- 
ligion what sprang from another source. Thus you 
recommend yourself to my prayers, in hopes of finding 
that succor which I look for from you. 


28 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Do not, I pray, place that false confidence in me which 
will make me lose the assistance I want. If you think 
me in health, you will prescribe no medicines; if in 
affluence, your hand will not be open to relieve me; and 
if strong, alas ! I shall fall before you can hasten to sup- 
port me. Unmerited praise has been the ruin of many. 
It puts us off our guard at the moment caution is most 
necessary. 

If you be an enemy to flattery, and a friend to truth, 
let me then entreat you to cease from praising me. If 
you think I possess anything commendable, do not you, 
at least, rouse the wind of vanity, which may dissipate 
it at a blast. Would he be thought an able physician 
who, from external symptoms, should pretend to deter- 
mine the nature of an internal disorder ? Things which 
are common to the saint and the sinner have no merit in 
the sight of G-od. Such are all outward practices, to 
which the hypocrite more sedulously adheres than the 
greatest saint. 

The heart of man is depraved. It is impenetrable to 
human sight; who yet has fathomed it? And there are 
ways which to us seem straight, the ends of which lead 
to death. Where God has reserved judgment to himself, 
it is rash in man to pronounce. For which reason the 
wise man says, “ praise no one while he lives.” Give not 
commendation at a time when the very act of doing it 
may make him undeserving of it. 

To me your praises bring the greatest delight; but 
therefore is their influence the more dangerous. The 
anxious desire I have to please you gives them a 
thousand charms; yet I would rather you should tremble 
for me than show too much confidence. Fear will make 
you solicitous to assist me; and in my present state, 
heaven knows what cause I have to tremble ! 

Do not tell me, in your exhortations to a virtuous life, 
that “ virtue is perfected in weakness,” and that “ he 
only shall be crowned who has bravely contended.” I 
look for no laurels, no crown of victory. It is enough 
for me to keep out of the way of danger. I like not the 
perils of war. If God will but give me the lowest place 
in heaven, I shall be amply satisfied. There, indeed, 
jealousy is not known, where each one is pleased with his 
allotment of happiness. 


ABELARD TO HELOISE. 


29 


If these sentiments be not yours, I will confirm them 
by the authority of Saint Jerome. “ I fairly confess my 
weakness : I do not wish to fight in hopes of victory, lest 
I be defeated. How foolish is it to abandon what is cer- 
tain, and run after an uncertainty, which we may never 
find.” Farewell ! 


IV. 

ABELARD TO HELOISE. 

The complaints you urge against me in your last letter 
may be reduced to four heads : — That in the salutation of 
my letter I put your name before my own. That instead 
of administering comfort, I had added to your grief by 
my expressions. That my praises are dangerous to you; 
while to oppose them you accuse yourself, and entreat me 
not to repeat them. And lastly, you subjoined your tire- 
some and never-ending murmurs against Providence. 

To these I will reply, not so much in my own defence, 
as for your instruction and advice. When you know that 
my requests are reasonable, you will be more disposed to 
comply with them; and when you find that I am not 
reprehensible in what regards myself, you will think me 
more just in your own concerns, and not again under- 
value my admonitions. 

First, with regard to what you style the preposterous 
order of my address, a little attention will show you, that 
in so doing I conformed to your own idea. You say 
that when we write to our superiors, their names should 
have the first place. You yourself are my superior since 
you became the spouse of Christ. 

Second , and in reply to your second charge, that I 
afflicted you by mentioning the danger I am exposed to, 
and the death which I apprehend, recollect that I did 
that also in compliance with your most earnest request. 
I refer you to the words of your first letter — “For 
Christ’s sake .... do inform us, and that continually, 
of each circumstance of your present dangers.” I ac- 
quainted you of my anxious cares, to which you had con- 
jured me, and for that I am blamed. While my life is in 
danger, would it become jou rather to rejoice ? Or you 


30 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


would partake of my joys but not of my sorrows. Nothing 
so well distinguishes our true from our false friends, as 
that the former stand by us in adversity, and the latter 
are our companions only in prosperity. 

Cease, therefore, I pray you, from such expressions, 
and still those useless murmurs, which, indeed, have no 
affinity with the feelings of friendship. Or if this must 
not be, I at least may be permitted, surrounded as I am 
by perils, to be anxious for my own soul, and to provide, 
as far as may be, for its welfare. And how, if you really 
love me, can you object to this provident circumspection? 
Even had you any confidence in the divine mercy towards 
me, in proportion as my sufferings appear heavy to you, 
it would be your wish to see me delivered from them. 
For you are well convinced that he would be my bene- 
factor who should put a period to my unhappy life. 
What then might be my fate is uncertain; but I know my 
present evils. 

The termination of misery is itself a happiness; and 
they who really feel for others, whatever their own loss 
may be in the event, cannot but desire to see an end to 
their labors. The fond mother who beholds her son lan- 
guishing in pain, looks eagerly to its conclusion ; she 
cannot support the sight, and she rather prefers his dis- 
solution than to witness his misery. The company of a 
friend is, indeed, pleasing, but I would prefer to see him 
away and happy, than to have him with me, and miser- 
able. His sufferings which I cannot remedy, are to me 
intolerable. 

But you, Heloise, may not even enjoy my wretched 
company. Why, then, would you rather see me live in 
sorrow, than die and be happy ? I do not understand 
your motives. If, from a continuance of my sufferings, 
you expect any advantage to yourself, you act the part 
rather of an enemy than a friemd. The idea, I know, 
shocks you; let me then hear no more of such complaints. 

Third , your rejection of praise I certainly applaud; 
therefore you show that you deserve it. It is written, 
“ he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.” Your 
heart and hand, I trust, have gone together. If so, your 
humility is sincere, and my words will not injure it. But 
take care, I beg, lest in seeming to avoid praise, you seek 
it more, and your mind give the lie to your tongue. You 


AJBELAKD TO HELOISE. 


31 


know the sentiment of Jerome on this subject ; and let 
me remind you of the artful Galatea of Virgil. She ran 
from her lover, that he might pursue her, and before she 
hid herself, she contrived to be seen. 

So we also strive to excite the greater admiration, by 
seeming to withdraw from it. We decline the regard of 
the world, and we draw it after us. It is an unbecoming 
artifice. 

I speak of common characters. Of you I have no sus- 
picion, nor do I doubt your sincerity. Still, let me ad- 
vise you to be more guarded in your language. They 
who know you less may perhaps think you are but ask- 
ing for greater praise. My commendations, believe me, 
will never make you vain ; but they may stimulate you 
to better exertions, and the more you desire to please 
me the more ardently will you strive to execute my in- 
junctions. If I praise the excellency of your religious 
deportment, it is not that you should glory in it. And 
observe that, as the censure of an enemy is not to have 
much weight, so should not the praise from a friend be 
too confidently relied on. 

Fourth , it remains that I examine more minutely what 
has long been the subject of your incessant complaints. 
I mean the circumstance which drew us from the world. 
Here you accuse the ways of Providence, when it would 
be more equitable to extol them. I had thought, indeed, 
that long ago, by the peculiar grace of heaven, this bitter- 
ness had been erased from your mind. The more dan- 
gerous it is, at once threatening the ruin of your soul and 
body, the more it calls for pity, and the more it gives 
me pain. You declare that your only wish is to please 
me ; quit, then, these baneful thoughts, that you may 
torment me no longer ; that you may make me happy. 
With them I cannot be pleased, nor with them can you 
expect to go along with me to happiness hereafter. You 
have professed a willingness to follow me even to the 
gates of misery, and will you let me go without you to 
those of eternal happiness ? Let this, at least, be a mo- 
tive which may urge you to a religious life. Reflect on 
the happiness which awaits you there, and on my society, 
which will no more be taken from you, for you do not 
hesitate to declare that l am in the right way. Recollect 
what you once said ; call to mind the words of your last 


32 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


letter, that in the manner of our conversion, and in the 
mode of God’s chastisement, heaven had been rather fa- 
vorable to me. Yes, Helo'ise, it was kind to us both ; but 
the excess of your grief does not admit the language of 
reason. Lament not that you were the cause of this 
event ; rather be persuaded you were born to be it. I 
suffered ; but it was advantageous to me ; do the suffer- 
ings of the martyrs also give you pain ? Had I justly 
suffered, could you have borne it more patiently ? If so, 
ignominy would have fallen upon me, and my enemies 
might have gloried ; they would have been just, and I 
contemptible. Their conduct would have found no ac- 
cusers, and who would have pitied me ? 

To assuage the bitterness of your grief I could show 
that all has happened for the best, and with a view to 
our greater good. The ways of Providence are inscru- 
table but just. Revolve in your thoughts the intemper- 
ance of our behavior, even after marriage, when you 
were at Argenteuil, and I sometimes came to visit you. 
Need I mention our many antecedent caresses? and how 
basely I had deceived your uncle, when I lived with him 
in habits of unlimited confidence ? Surely his vengeance 
was not unmerited. It was in punishment of these 
crimes that I have suffered ; and to the same cause I 
ascribe the many evils which, at this hour, surround 
me. It will be well if divine justice may thus be satisfied. 
Call to your recollection another circumstance. When I 
took you from Paris into Brittany, to avoid shame and 
the fury of your uncle, you disguised yourself in the 
habit of a nun, and thus irreverently profaned the holy 
institute you nQw profess. With what propriety, then 
has the divine justice, or rather, the divine goodness, 
compelled you to embrace a state which you could wan- 
tonly ridicule, willing that in the very habit of a nun you 
should expiate the crime committed against it. The 
truth of reality supplies itself a cure, and corrects your 
dissimulation. 

If we view the advantages also which this justice has 
produced, you will rather be disposed to bless the kind- 
ness of heaven towards us. My dearest Heloise, do con- 
sider, from what perils we were drawn, even when we 
resisted most the calls of mercy. We were exposed to 
the most dangerous tempests, and God delivered us 


ABELARD TO HELOISE. 


33 


Ever repeat, and with a grateful mind, the wonders of 
His mercy. The worst sinners may take a lesson from 
our example ; for what may not suppliants expect, when 
they hear of the favors which were done to us ? Com- 
pare together the magnitude of our dangers, and the 
ease of our deliverance ; our inveterate disorders, and 
the gentle remedy : our unworthy conduct, and the be- 
nevolence of heaven. I will then proclaim what the 
Lord has done for me. , 

And do you also be my inseparable associate in this 
grateful thanksgiving : you were my partner in guilt, 
and you shared the favor of heaven. Heaven has been 
particularly mindful of you ; even by the happy presage 
of your name it marked you for its own ; for Heloise is 
derived from the sacred name Heloim. 

In the admirable order of Providence, by the very 
means the devil aimed to destroy us, was our salvation 
effected. We were then just united by the indissoluble 
bond of marriage. It was my wish never to be separated 
from you ; and, at that moment, God projected to draw 
us both to himself. Had you been tied by no engagement, 
when I left the world, the persuasion of friends, or the 
love of pleasure, might easily have detained you in it. It 
seemed, by this care of heaven, as if we had been de- 
signed for some important purpose ; as if it were unbe- 
coming that the literary talents we both possessed should 
be employed in other business than in celebrating the 
praises of our Maker. Perhaps it was feared that the 
allurements of a woman might pervert my heart. Such 
was the fate of Solomon. 

To the events which have mercifully befallen us both, 
learn then to submit with patience. It was the hand of 
a father which struck, not to destroy, but to correct us. 
His severest blow gave life to my soul. He might justly 
have overwhelmed me, when, to save me from eternal 
punishment, he inflicted transitory pain. You and I had 
both been guilty; and he was satisfied that one should 
suffer. It is true, you had deserved less, for by nature 
you were more infirm, and your virtue was more constant. 
In equity did God weigh these circumstances, and I 
thank him from my heart that he laid no punishment on 
you, and yet reserved for you the palm of victory. Me, 
indeed, he chastised and stilled the tempest of my pas- 
2 * 


34 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


sions; but you he destined to nobler conflicts, and to the 
rewards of those who conquer. This I know you do not 
hear with pleasure, and you forbade me to repeat it; but 
it is not therefore less the language of truth. He who 
has an enemy to oppose, has ever victory to look for: as 
the Apostle says, “ he only shall be crowned who has 
contended stoutly.” 


Y. 


HELOiSE TO ABELARD. 

That you may not have cause to charge me with dis- 
obedience, as you ordered so have I checked the language 
of immoderate grief. When I write to you, my expres- 
sions shall be more temperate : but on other occasions I 
cannot promise to restrain my tongue. Nothing is less 
in our power than our own minds; and we are oftener 
forced to obey, than we can command, their operations. 
The sudden impulse of strong affections cannot be at 
once repressed; their effects are visible, and they more 
easily announce themselves in words, which are their 
readiest vehicle. “ From the abundance of the heart the 
mouth speaketh.” But I will keep my pen in subjection, 
even when my tongue shall be ungovernable. It would 
be well, indeed, if my mind we*e as subservient. 

To restore me to serenity is ^ot, I fear, in your power, 
but you can moderate my sorrow. One thought is 
banished by another. The chain of gloomy meditation 
is broken when new objects engage the attention ; and 
the more honorable, or expedient, or interesting these 
may appear, the more intense will be their impression, 
and the more will the mind turn aside from trouble. 



Anna Boleyn. 



HENRY VIII. AND ANNE BOLEYN. 


The originals of the first five of the following letters, 
which were surreptitiously conveyed to Italy soon after 
they were written, are preserved in the Vatican Library 
at Rome. Of the last one, in which the unfortunate 
young Queen prays for a fair trial, Hume says: “This 
letter contains so much nature, and even elegance, as to 
deserve to be transmitted to posterity without any altera- 
tion in the expression.” The original manuscript was 
partly destroyed by fire in 1781. It is among the manu- 
script collections in the British Museum. “It is not 
wonderful,” says Mackintosh, “ that the excitement of 
such a moment, if it left Anne calmness enough to write, 
should raise her language to an energy unknown in her 
other -writings. If this explanation from Lord Herbert 
should be deemed inadequately to account for the singu- 
lar exactness and elegance of the composition, why may 
we not suppose, consistently with its substantial authen- 
ticity, that a compassionate confessor, or one lingering 
friend, may have secretly lent his hand to refine and 
elevate the diction? Sir Thomas Wyatt, one of the 
fathers of English poetry (to take an instance,) could 
not have forgotten that his heart had once been touched 
by her youthful loveliness, and if he had been moved by 
a generous remembrance of affection to lend his help * at 
her utmost need/ he would assuredly not have disturbed 


38 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


No more, for fear of tiring you. Written by the hand 
of him who would willingly remain 

Yours, H. Rex. 


m. 


Mine Own Sweetheart : 

This shall be to advertise you of the great loneness 
that I find since your departing, for I assure you me 
thinketh the time longer since your departing now last, 
than I was wont to do a whole fortnight. I think your 
kindness and my fervency of love causeth it, for otherwise 
I would not have thought it possible that for so little a 
while it should have grieved me. But now that I am 
coming towards you, me thinketh my pains be half re- 
lieved, and also I am right well comforted, insomuch as 
my book maketh substantially for my matter. In token 
whereof I have spent above four hours this day upon it, 
which has caused me to write the shorter letter to you at 
this time, because of some pain in my head 

********* 


IV. 

My Mistress and my Friend : 

My heart and I surrender themselves into your hands, 
and we supplicate to be commended to your good graces, 
and that by absence your affections may not be diminished 
to us; for that would be to augment our pain, which 
would be a great pity, since absence gives enough, and 
more than I ever thought could be felt. This brings to 
my mind a fact in astronomy, which is, that the further 
the poles are from the sun, notwithstanding, the more 
scorching is the heat. Thus is it with our love ; absence 
has placed distance between us, nevertheless fervor in- 


ANNE BOLEYN TO HENRY VIII. 


39 


creases — at least on my part. I hope the same from you, 
assuring you that in my case the anguish of absence is 
so great that it would be intolerable were it not for the 
firm hope I have of your indissoluble affection towards 
me. In order to remind you of it, and because I cannot 
in person be in your presence, I send you the thing which 
comes nearest that is possible, that is to say, my picture, 
and the whole device, wffiich you already know of, set in 
bracelets, wishing myself in their place when it pleases 
you. This is from the hand of 

Your servant and friend, H. B. 


Y. 

ANNE BOLEYN TO HENBY VUL 


Sibe: 

It belongs only to the august mind of a great King, to 
whom Nature has given a heart full of generosity towards 
the sex, to repay by favors so extraordinary an artless and 
short conversation with a girl. Inexhaustible as is the 
treasury of your Majesty’s bounties, I pray you to con- 
sider that it cannot be sufficient to your generosity : for 
if you recompense so slight a conversation by gifts so 
great, what will you be able to do for those who are 
ready to consecrate their entire obedience to your de- 
sires ? How great soever may be the bounties I have re- 
ceived, the joy that I feel in being loved by a king whom 
I adore, and to whom I would with pleasure make a sac- 
rifice of my heart, if fortune had rendered it worthy of 
being offered to him, will ever be infinitely greater. 

The warrant of Maid of Honor to the Queen induces 
me to think that your Majesty has some regard for me, 
since it gives me the means of seeing you oftener, and of 
assuring you by my own lips (which I shall do on the 
first opportunity,) that I am, 

Your Majesty’s very obliged and very obedient servant, 
without any reserve, Anne Boleyn. 


40 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


VL 

Sib : Your grace’s displeasure and my imprisonment 
are things so strange unto me, as what to write, or what 
to excuse, I am altogether ignorant. Whereas you send 
unto me (willing me to confess a truth, and so obtain 
your favor) by such an one whom you know to be mine 
ancient professed enemy, I no sooner received this mes- 
sage by him than I rightly conceived your meaning; and 
if, as you say, confessing a truth indeed may procure my 
safety, I shall, with all willingness and duty, perform 
your command. 

But let not your grace ever imagine that your poor 
wife will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault where 
not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And, to 
speak a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all 
duty, and in all true affection, than you have ever found 
in Anne Boleyn; with which name and place I could wil- 
lingly have contented myself, if God and your grace’s 
pleasure had been so pleased. Neither did I at any time 
so far forget myself in my exaltation, or received queen- 
ship, but that I always looked for such an alteration as 
now I find; for the ground of my preferment being on 
no surer foundation than your grace’s fancy, the least 
alteration I know was fit and sufficient to draw that fancy 
to some other subject. You have chosen me from a low 
estate to be your queen and companion, far beyond my 
desert and desire. If, then, you found me worthy of such 
honor, good your grace, let not any light fancy, or bad 
counsel of mine enemies, withdraw your princely favor 
from me; neither let that stain, that unworthy stain, of a 
disloyal heart toward your good grace, ever cast so foul 
a blot on your most dutiful wife, and the infant princess, 
your daughter. Try me, good King, but let me have a 
lawful trial; and let not my sworn enemies sit as my ac- 
cusers and judges; yea, let me receive an open trial' (for 
my truth shall fear no open shame) ; then shall you see 
either mine innocence cleared, your suspicion and con- 
science satisfied, the ignominy and slander of the world 
stopped, or my guilt openly declared. So that whatso- 


ANNE BOLEYN TO HENRY VIII. 


41 


ever God or you may determine of me, your grace may 
be freed from an open censure, and mine offence being so 
lawfully proved, your grace is at liberty, both before God 
and man, not only to execute worthy punishment on me 
as an unlawful wife, but to follow your affection, already 
settled on that party, for whose sake I am now as I am, 
whose name I could some good while since have pointed 
unto your grace, being not ignorant of my suspicion 
therein. But if you have already determined of me, and 
that not only my death, but an infamous slander must 
bring you the enjoying of your desired happiness, then I 
desire of God that he will pardon your great sin therein, 
and likewise mine enemies the instruments thereof; and 
that he will not call you to a strict account of your un- 
princely and cruel usage of me, at his general judgment- 
seat, where both you and myself must shortly appear, 
and in whose judgment, I doubt not (whatsoever the 
world may think of me), mine innocence shall be openly 
known and sufficiently cleared. My last and only re- 
quest shall be, that myself may only bear the burthen of 
your grace’s displeasure, and that it may not touch the 
innocent souls of those poor gentlemen who, as I under- 
stand, are likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. 
If ever I found favor in your sight, if ever the name of 
Anne Boleyn hath been pleasing in your ears, then let 
me obtain this request, and I will so leave to trouble 
your grace any farther with my earnest prayers to the 
Trinity to have your grace in his good keeping, and to 
direct you in all your actions. From my doleful prison 
in the Tower, the 6th of May. Your most loyal and ever 
faithful wife. 


PRINCESS ELIZABETH. 


Elizabeth, daughter of Henry the Eighth, by his 
second wife, Anne Boleyn, was bora at Greenwich, Sep- 
tember 7th, 1533. When two years old a negotiation 
was entered into for her marriage to the third son of 
Francis I., of France, but it was broken off before any 
agreement was come to. In 1546 it was proposed that 
she should marry the son of the Emperor Charles V., of 
Germany, afterwards Philip H., but this alhance was also 
broken off. Her next suitor, though he does not appear 
to have formally declared his pretensions, was the pro- 
tector Somerset’s unfortunate brother, the Lord Thomas 
Seymour, of Sudley. He is said to have made some ad- 
vances to her even before his marriage with Queen 
Catherine Parr, sixth wife of Henry the Eighth, although 
Elizabeth was only in her fourteenth year. Catherine, 
who died a few months after her marriage (poisoned, it 
is supposed, by the admiral), appears to have been made 
somewhat uncomfortable while she lived, by the freedoms 
the princess continued to allow Seymour to take with her, 
which went beyond ordinary flirtation; the gossip of the 
day indeed was, that “Lady Elizabeth did bear some 
affection to the admiral.” After his wife’s death he was 
accused of having renewed his design upon her hand; 
and it was a part of the charge on which he was attainted, 
that he had plotted to seize the king’s (Edward VI.) per- 


PRINCESS ELIZABETH TO LORD SEYMOUR. 43 

son, and to force the princess to marry him. TTi« execu- 
tion on the 20th of March, 1549, stopped this and all the 
admiral’s other ambitious schemes. He was one of the 
handsomest men of the court of Henry the Eighth, and 
his successor — was gay, magnificent, and brave, excelling 
in all the manly exercises of that age, and much dis- 
tinguished by the richness of his dress. It is probable 
that Seymour was the first and only man that Queen 
Elizabeth ever loved. She died March 24th, 1603. 
Bacon and Beaumont, Eletcher and Raleigh, Spencer and 
Shakespeare, and many other eminently distinguished 
names, gained their earliest celebrity in the Elizabethan 
age. 


PRINCESS ELIZABETH TO LORD SEYMOUR. 

27 th Feb., 1547. 

My Lord Admiral : 

The letter you have written to me is the most obliging, 
and, at the same time, the most eloquent in the world. 
And as I do not feel myself competent to reply to so 
many courteous expressions, I shall content myself with 
unfolding to you, in few words, my real sentiments. I 
confess to you that your letter, all eloquent as it is, has 
very much surprised me; for, besides that neither my age 
nor my inclination allows me to think of marriage, I 
never could have believed that any one would have spoken 
to me of nuptials at a time when I ought to think of 
nothing but sorrow for the death of my father. And to 
him I owe so much, that I must have two years at least 
to mourn for his loss. And how can I make up my mind 
to become a wife before I shall have enjoyed for some 
years my virgin state, and arrived at years of discretion ? 

Permit me, then, my Lord Admiral, to tell you frankly, 
that as there is no one in the world who more esteems 
your merit than myself, or who sees you with more plea- 
sure as a disinterested person, so would I preserve to 
myself the privilege of recognizing you as such, without 


44 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


entering into that strict bond of matrimony, which often 
causes one to forget the possession of true merit. Let 
your highness be well persuaded that though I decline 
the happiness of becoming your wife, I shall never cease 
to interest myself in all that can crown your merit with 
glory, and shall ever feel the greatest pleasure in being 
your servant and good friend. 


Elizabeth. 


JAMES HOWELL 


Our earliest collection of Familiar Letters is that of 
James Howell, who was born in 1596, and died in the 
year 1666. He was the son of a Welsh clergyman. 
Howell, with Joseph Mead, who, before he became dis- 
tinguished as a divine, “ was much alive to the transac- 
tions of his time,” furnish in their letters an account, 
which has the interest of a romance, of the “ Love Pas- 
sages ” of Prince Charles with the Infanta of Spain, which 
after his accession to the throne terminated in his mar- 
riage with Henrietta Marie, Princess of France. In a 
letter to his father, of the 22d of March, 1623, Howell 
writes that the Spanish Ambassador, Count Gondamar, 
is strongly negotiating a match betwixt the Prince and 
the Infanta of Spain. He also reports that the Marquis 
of Buckingham continues still in fullness of grace and 
favor. The Spanish Ambassador is described as a man 
of address and wit, ingratiating himself with “divers 
persons of quality,” ladies especially. “ Dispatching a 
post lately for Spain, and the post having received his 
packet, and kissed his hands, he called him back and told 
him he had forgot one thing, which was, that when he 
came to Spain he should commend him to the sun, for he 
had not seen him a great while, and in Spain he should 
be sure to find him.” By the end of the year the desire 
of Howell for Court employment is gratified by his ap- 


46 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


pointment as an agent in Spain, “ upon a business which 
I hope will make me good returns.” By the end of De- 
cember he has arrived at Madrid, and thus writes to a 
friend in London : 

I am safely come to the Court of Spain ; and although 
by reason of that misfortune which befell Mr. Altham 
and me, of wounding the sergeants in Lombard street, 
we stayed three weeks behind my Lord Ambassador, yet 
we came hither time enough to attend him to Court as 
his first audience. 

The English nation is better looked on now in Spain 
than ordinary, because of the hopes there are of a match, 
which the merchants and commonalty much desire, 
though the nobility and gentry be not so forward for it ; 
so that in this point the pulse of Spain beats quite con- 
trary to that of England, where the people are averse 
to this match, and the nobility, with most part of the 
gentry, inclinable. 

Howell, with the pliability of a courtier, is disposed to 
look upon the Princess of Spain with a favorable eye : — 

The treaty of the match ’twixt our Prince and the Lady 
Infanta is now strongly a-foot. She is a very comely 
lady, rather of a Flemish complexion than Spanish; fair- 
haired, and carrie th a most pure mixture of red and 
white in her face ; she is full and big-lipped, which is 
held a beauty rather than a blemish or any excess in the 
Austrian family, it being a thing incident to most of that 
race. She goes upon sixteen, and is of a tallness agree- 
able to those years. 

Thus affairs were quietly advancing from the 5th of 
January to the 27th of March, when Howell communi- 
cates to Sir Thomas Savage a piece of intelligence which 
is not calculated to excite much astonishment in England : 

“The great business of the match was tending to a 
period, the articles reflecting both upon Church and 


JAMES HOWELL. 


47 


State being capitulated and interchangeably accorded on 
both sides, and there wanted nothing to consummate all 
things, when, to the wonderment of the world, the Prince 
and the Marquis of Buckingham arrived at this Court 
on Friday last, upon the close of the evening. 

They lighted at my Lord of Bristol’s house, and the 
Marquis came in first with a portmantle under his arm, 
then the Prince was sent for, who stayed awhile the other 
side of the street in the dark ; my Lord of Bristol in a 
kind of astonishment brought him up to his bed-chamber, 
where he presently called for pen and ink, and dispatched 
a post that night to England to acquaint his Majesty how 
in less than sixteen days he was come safely to the Court 
of Spain ; that post went lightly laden, for he carried but 
three letters. The next day came Sir Francis Cotington 
and Mr. Porter, and dark rumors ran in every corner how 
some great man was come from England, and some would 
not stick to say amongst the vulgar, it was the king ; but 
towards the evening on Saturday the Marquis went in a 
close coach to Court, where he had private audience of 
this king, who sent Olivares to accompany him back to 
the Prince, where he kneeled and kissed his hands, and 
hugged his thighs, and delivered how immeasurably glad 
his Catholic Majesty was of his coming, and other high 
compliments, which Mr. Porter did interpret. About ten 
o’clock that night, the king himself came in a close coach 
with intent to visit the Prince, who, hearing of it, met 
him half-way, and after salutations and divers embraces 
which passed in the first interview, they parted late. I 
forgot to tell you that Count Gondamar being sworn 
Counsellor of State that morning, having been before but 
one of the Council of War, he came in great haste to 
visit the Prince, saying he had strange news to tell him, 
which was that an Englishman was sworn Privy Coun- 
sellor of Spain, meaning himself, who he said was to 
Englishman in his heart. On the Sunday following, the 
king in the afternoon came abroad to take the air with 
the queen, his two brothers, and the Infanta, who were 
all in one coach ; but the Infanta sat in the boot with a 
blue riband about her arm, on purpose that the Prince 
might distinguish her. There were above twenty coaches 
besides of Grands, Noblemen, and Ladies that attended 


48 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


them. And now it was publicly known amongst the vul- 
gar that it was the Prince of Wales who was come, and 
the confluence of people before my Lord of Bristol’s 
house was so great and greedy to see the Prince, that to 
clear the way Sir Lewis Dives went out and took coach, 
and all the crowd of people went after him, so the Prince 
himself a little after took coach, wherein there were the 
Earl of Bristol, Sir Walter Ashton, and Count Gondamar, 
and so went to the Prado, a place hard by, of purpose to 
take the air, where they stayed till the King passed by. 
As soon as the Infanta saw the Prince, her color rose very 
high, which we hold to be an impression of love and af- 
fection, for the face is oftentimes a true index of the 
heart. 

For several months the communicative James Howell 
imparts no tidings to his friends at home of the progress 
of the nuptial negotiations at Madrid. The Spanish 
public, however, from the first, accepted the treaty as one 
which no adverse circumstances could set aside. Their 
opinions were embodied in a curious volume, described 
by Mr. Mead in a letter to Sir Martin Stuteville, which 
is published in the Ellis collection. Of the book herein 
described there is a copy in the British Museum : 

I saw a book this week of the marriage of our Prince 
Charles and the Spanish Infanta Maria, which I took at 
the first to have been an Epithalamium. The frontis- 
piece was cut in a large quarto, with many devices, and 
at the bottom the Prince and Lady, in their robes, and 
Christ like a parson joining their hands and marrying 
them. The dedication was to Don Gondamar, and a 
whole leaf and a half spent in his titles. The author 
wrote himself Michael de Yal. It contained verses, and 
those, some of them, in Spanish, with many discourses 
both of the commendation of Spain and Spaniards, es- 
pecially for fidelity above any nation ; the praise of our 
king; an historical catalogue of all the marriages between 
us and Spain heretofore, and their happiness ; all ob- 
jections against the match answered, the enmity of th§ 


i 


JAMES HOWELL. 


49 


nations, the difference of religion, and such like ; the 
great advantages we on our part may expect thereby, and 
among others that we shall be in possibility of the king- 
doms of Spain and the Indies, etc., if this king should 
die without issue, because the elder sister publicly re- 
nounced her right to succession when she was married to 
France, in regard that Spain could not succeed there by 
the Salick law. I know not what it means. They say it 
is prohibited to be sold openly, and that the King was of- 
fended at it. It was translated into English, but they say 
the printing was stayed. 

At the beginning of July, we find the ‘ Epistolae Ho- 
Elianse ’ again full of interest, with liveliness unabated 
by the solemn ceremonies by which he is surrounded. It 
was a provident arrangement of the Marquis to have the 
famous English jester at hand, to divert his highness 
amidst the tedious delays which impeded the smooth 
course of his true love. The scene in the garden is wor- 
thy of Le Sage : 

There are comedians once a week come to the palace, 
where under a great canopy the Queen and the Infanta 
sit in the middle, our Prince and Don Carlos on the 
Queen’s right hand, the King and the little Cardinal on 
the Infanta’s left hand. I have seen the Prince have his 
eyes immovably fixed on the Infanta half an hour to- 
gether in a thoughtful speculative posture, which sure 
would needs be tedious, unless affection did sweeten it : 
it was no handsome comparison of Olivares’s that he 
watched her as a cat doth a mouse. Not long since, the 
Prince understanding that the Infanta was used to go 
some mornings to the Casa de campo, a summer-house 
the King hath the other side of the river, to gather May- 
dew, he did rise betimes and went thither, taking your 
brother with him. They were let into the house, and 
into the garden, but the Infanta was in the orchard, and 
there being a high partition- wall between, and the door 
doubly bolted, the Prince got on the top of the wall, and 
sprung down a great height, and so made towards her, 
but she spying him first of all the rest, gave a shriek and 
3 


60 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


ran back ; the old Marquis that was then her guardian 
came towards the Prince, and fell on his knees, conjuring 
his highness to retire, in regard he hazarded his head if 
he admitted any to her company ; so the door was opened, 
and he came out under that wall over which he had got 
in. I have seen him watch a long hour together in a 
close coach in the open street to see her as she went 
abroad. I cannot say that the Prince did ever talk with 
her privately, yet publicly often, my Lord of Bristol being 
interpreter, but the King always sat hard by to overhear 
all. Our cousin Archy hath more privilege than any, for 
he often goes with his fool’s coat where the Infanta is 
with her Meninas and ladies of honor, and keeps a blow- 
ing and blustering amongst them, and flirts out what he 
list. 

One day they were discoursing what a marvellous thing 
it was that the Duke of Bavaria, with less than 15,000 
men, after a long toilsome march, should dare to encoun- 
ter the Palsgrave’s army, consisting of above 25,000, and 
to give them an utter discomfiture, and take Prague 
presently after. Whereunto Archy answered, that he 
would tell them a stranger thing than that: “Was it 
not a strange thing,” quoth he, “that in the year ’88 
there should come a fleet of one hundred and forty sails 
from Spain to invade England, and that ten of these 
could not go back to tell what became of the rest ?” 

In the middle of August Howell exhibits symptoms of 
distrust of the successful issue of the great negotiation : 
“ The Court of Spain affords now little news, for there is 
a remora sticks to the business of the match, till the Junta 
of Divines give up their opinion.” The troublesome 
priests make a sort of compromise, and then the matri- 
monial articles were sworn to by the King of Spain and 
the Prince of Wales. But a new difficulty arose. Pope 
Gregory was dead, and the dispensation must be ratified 
by the new Pope, Urban. The Prince urged that he must 
go home ; there was a general murmuring at his long 
stay ; the King, his father, was old and sickly. So it was 
agreed that he should leave a proxy behind biin to con- 
clude the marriage : 


JAMES HOWELL. 


51 


So they parted for that time without the least umbrage 
of discontent, nor do I hear of any engendered since. 
The last month, it is true, the Junta of Divines dwelt so 
long upon the business, that there were whisperings that 
the Prince intended to go away disguised as he came ; 
and the question being asked by a person of quality, 
there was a brave answer made, that if love brought him 
thither, it is not fear shall drive him away. 

Howell remained at Madrid after the departure of the 
Prince and his suite. He had a commission to execute, 
which he accomplished to his own satisfaction, and not 
less to the joy of the “ dear dad and gossip ” of “ the 
sweet boys.” He thus writes from London to his father : 

I am newly-returned from Spain ; I came over in con- 
voy of the Prince’s jewels, for which one of the Ships 
Royal, with the Catch, were sent under the command of 
Captain Love. We landed at Plymouth, whence I came 
by post to Theobald’s in less than two nights and a day, 
to bring his Majesty news of their safe arrival. The 
Prince had newly got a fall off a horse, and kept his 
chamber. The jewels were valued at above a hundred 
thousand pounds ; some of them a little before the 
Prince’s departure had been presented to the Infanta, but 
she waiving to receive them, yet with a civil compliment 
they were left in the hands of one of the Secretaries of 
State for her use upon the wedding-day, and it was no 
unworthy thing in the Spaniard to deliver them back, 
notwithstanding that the treaties both of match and pa- 
latinate had been dissolved a pretty while before, by 
Act of Parliament, that a war was threatened, and am- 
bassadors revoked. There were jewels also amongst 
them to be presented to the King and Queen of Spain, 
to most of the Ladies of Honor, and the Grandees. 
There was a great table diamond for Olivares of eighteen 
carats’ weight; but the richest of all was to the Infanta 
herself, which was a chain of great Orient pearl, to the 
number of 276, weighing nine ounces. The Spaniards, 
notwithstanding they are the masters of the staple of 
jewels, stood astonished at the beauty of these, and con- 
fessed themselves to be put down. 


62 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


It was at the special importunity of Buckingham, fol- 
lowing up a request of Prince Charles, that the old King 
consented to part with some of the choice treasures upon 
which his eyes were accustomed to gloat. The saucy 
Steenie writes to his “ dear Dad, Gossip, and Steward,” 
that he himself had been forced to lend the Prince jewels 
to eke out “ the poor equipage he came in.” Boldly does 
he make his demand : 

These reasons, I hope, since you have ventured already 
your chiefest jewel, your son, will serve to persuade you 
to let loose these more after him ; first, your best hat- 
band ; the Portinggall diamond; the rest of the pendant 
diamonds to make up a necklace to give his mistress ; and 
the best rope of pearl with a rich chain or two for him- 
self to wear, or else your dog muse want a collar. 

Lucky was it for the successors to the English crown 
that the pride of the Spaniard prevented him keeping 
these politic offerings, for Mr. Ellis says, in a note to 
Buckingham’s letters, that the jewels of James’s Queen, 
as well as some of Queen Elizabeth’s, must, it is probable, 
“ have found their way at this time to Spain.” James I. 
is dead. King Charles being off with the old love, loses 
little time in tedious wooings of the new one. Says 
Howell : 

The match betwixt his Majesty and the Lady Henri- 
etta Maria, youngest daughter to Henry the Great (the 
eldest being married to the King of Spain, and the second 
to the Duke of Savoy), goes roundly on, and is in a man- 
ner concluded, whereat the Count of Soissons is much 
discontented, who gave himself hopes to have her, but 
the hand of heaven hath predestined her for a far higher 
condition. 

The French Ambassadors who were sent hither to con- 
clude the business, having private audience of his late 
Majesty a little before his death, he told them pleasantly, 
that he would make war against the Lady Henrietta, be- 


James howell 


53 

cause she would not receive the two letters which were 
sent her, one from himself, and the other from his son, 
but sent them to her mother ; yet he thought he should 
easily make peace with her, because he understood she 
had afterwards put the latter letter in her bosom, and the 
first in her coshionet, whereby he gathered that she in- 
tended to reserve his son for her affection, and him for 
counsel. 

The Bishop of Lucjon, now Cardinal de Richelieu, is 
grown to be the sole favorite of the King of France, be- 
ing brought in by the Queen-mother, he hath been very 
active in advancing the match. 

King Charles is married to Henrietta Maria. The 
worthy Howell is in raptures — as inconstant, it would 
seem, as his royal master. He thus writes to his brother: 

I thank you for your last letter, and the several good 
tidings sent me from Wales. In the requital I can send 
you gallant news, for we have now a most noble new 
Queen of England, who in true beauty is beyond the long- 
wooed Infanta, for she was of a fading flaxen hair, big- 
lipped, and somewhat heavy-eyed; but this daughter of 
France, this youngest branch of Bourbon (being but in 
her cradle when the great Henry, her father, was put out 
of the world), is of a more lovely and lasting complexion, 
a dark brown; she hath eyes that sparkle like stars; and 
for her physiognomy, she may be said to be a mirror of 
perfection. 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


Prominent among the famous women of France, who 
flourished during the seventeenth century, was the fair 
Anne, or Ninon de L’Enclos. She was born in Paris in 
1615, of a noble, though not very rich family of Touraine, 
was remarkable for her personal charms, and still more 
so for her influence over the savants of the day, by whom 
she was often consulted in literary matters. Men of genius, 
and noblemen of the highest rank thronged her salons ; 
all were captivated by her charms of mind and person. 
Such was the tone of morality in France in that age, 
that modest women courted her society, which was con- 
sidered a model of excellence and fashion ; among others, 
Madame de La Fayette, Madame de Nelly, Madame 
Scarron (afterwards Madame de Maintenon), Madame 
Grignon (sister of the Marquis, to whom the following 
letters were addressed,) often visited her. Queen Chris- 
tiana, of Sweden, during her residence in France, was 
much pleased with her, and wished to attach her to her 
court, but Mademoiselle preferred her independence. 
Although Ninon lived to the age of ninety, she is said to 
have retained her attractions almost to the last, and to 
have been the object of a violent passion at seventy. 
Among the many singular incidents of this extraordinary 
person’s career, were the circumstances attending the 


V 



Ninon de L’Enclos. 







NINON DE l’eNCLOS. 


55 


death, of one of her sons. Having been educated with- 
out knowing his mother, he conceived a passion for her, 
and when she revealed to him the secret of his birth, he 
stabbed himself to the heart in her presence. The fol- 
lowing score of letters form part of a correspondence 
which took place between the great wit and beauty, and 
Charles, son of the celebrated Madame de Sevigne, 
author of that admirable collection of letters upon which 
her fame is raised. Some of her epistles are introduced 
elsewhere in our collection. The young Marquis was 
paying his addresses to a beautiful countess, a widow ; 
and, as the lover was but a novice in gallantry, the witty 
Ninon undertook to be his guide, counsellor, and friend 
in the intricacies of the difficult art of courtship, and 
with complete success. Although they are not strictly 
love-letters, that is, letters passing between persons en- 
tertaining an affection for each other, yet they very pro- 
perly come within the scope of such a collection as the 
present, since they so cleverly describe the condition of 
lovers during the period they are most intent upon pen- 
ning amorous epistles. We are not unaware that these 
letters are, together with some other writings attributed 
to Ninon, deemed apocryphal, but be that as it may, 
whether genuine or supercheries , they are fully entitled, 
from the wit, humor, and sound sense pervading them, 
to a place in our gallery of love epistles. Some writers 
even assert that Ninon’s letters to the gallant St. Evre- 
mond, the companion in arms of Conde, which are found 
in the works of that author, and have been published in 
the “Lettres de Femmes Celebres,” are the only authen- 
tic memorials of her. Ninon died in Paris, October 17, 
1705. 


56 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS TO MABQUIS DE SEYIONL. 

L 

How ! Marquis ! Entrust me with the care of your 
education ! To guide you in the course you are about to 
take ! This is really expecting too much from my friend- 
ship for you. You know that when a woman who has 
passed her prime is observed to pay any particular at- 
tention to a young man, they immediately cry maliciously, 
“ She means to let him into the secrets of love.” I will 
not, therefore, expose myself to the hazard of such ridi- 
cule. All that I can do for your service is to become 
your confidant; you shall communicate to me every con- 
dition of your mind, on each occasion I will freely give 
you my sentiments, and will endeavor to assist you in 
becoming acquainted with your own heart, as well as that 
of woman. Notwithstanding the amusement which I 
promise myself in this correspondence, I shall not dis 
semble the difficulties I apprehend in my enterprise. 
This same heart, which is to be the subject of my lec- 
tures, is such a compound of contrasts, that whoever 
attempts to treat of it must unavoidably appear to fall 
into contradictions. We think to grasp it, but embrace a 
cloud. A very cameleon; viewed in different lights, it 
exhibits opposite colors ; which, nevertheless, exist to- 
gether in the same subject. You must, then, prepare 
yourself to hear many singularities, upon which I shall 
offer you my own conclusions; and if they should happen 
to appear to you rather new than just, you are at liberty 
to estimate them accordingly. 

I have, besides, a delicate scruple about this under- 
taking; for I foresee that I can hardly be sincere without 
detracting a little from the romance of my sex. But you 
would know what are my opinions about love, and all 
that relates to it; and I shall muster up resolution enough 
to deliver you my thoughts ingenuously upon this subject. 

I am to spend this evening at Monsieur de la Boche- 
foucault’s, with La Fontaine and Madame de la Sabliere. 
If you will be of our party, Fontaine shall entertain you 
with two new fables, which they say do by no means fall 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


57 


off in spirit from his former compositions in that way. 
Prithee meet us, Marquis. But hold — have I nothing to 
apprehend from the engagement we are entering upon ? 
Cupid is so sly an urchin ! Let me examine my heart — 
All safe. It is otherwise engaged: and the sentiments it 
is affected with towards you are more akin to friendship 
than to love. But at the worst, if any such caprice 
should hereafter happen to seize me, we must endeavor 
to retrieve ourselves from so unlucky an adventure, with 
the best address we can. 

We are going then, Marquis, to enter upon a course of 
morality. Yes, Marquis, of morality. But that this ex- 
pression may not too much alarm you, we shall engage in 
no other branch of it but love alone; and this is known 
to have too great an influence on the manners of man- 
kind not to deserve a particular study. 


n. 

Yes, Marquis, I will keep my word with you; and upon 
all occasions shall speak the truth, though I must some- 
times tell it at my own expense. I have more firmness 
of mind, perhaps, than you may imagine; and it is very 
probable that, in the course of this correspondence, you 
will think I push this quality too far. But then please 
to remember that I have only the outside of a woman, 
and that my heart and mind are wholly masculine. 

Let us proceed, then, to the latter part of your letter. 
You say that, since you have entered into life, you have 
been continually disappointed; your enjoyments fall short 
of expectations; disgust and weariness pursue you every- 
where. You fly to solitude, but grow tired when you ar- 
rive at it ; you know not, in short, to what can be 
attributed the restlessness that afflicts you. 

I am going, then, to put you out of pain on that point, 
for I have taken upon myself to give you my thoughts 
with regard to every affection of your mind; though per- 
haps you may often start questions which will embarrass 
me as much as they do you. 

3 * 


68 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


That disquietude, that restlessness, you complain of in 
yourself, proceeds entirely from the vacancy in your heart. 
It is void of love, and it was formed to receive it. You 
are absolutely, as one may say, under a necessity of 
loving. Yes, Marquis, nature has given us all a certain 
quota of affection, which we must exercise upon some 
particular object. Your time of life is adapted to the 
emotions of love; and until your heart has experienced 
these fond sensations, you will ever feel there a painful 
void; there will be no end to that lassitude you complain 
of. In a word, love is the aliment of the heart, as food 
is of the body. To love is to fulfill the scope of nature. 
It is the submitting to a fate. 

But if possible, endeavor to avoid that kind of love 
which rises to a passion: to prevent this misfortune , I am 
almost tempted to second the advice that has already 
been given you, to prefer the society of those women who 
set up for nothing more than being entertaining triflers, 
rather than those dangerous charmers who are capable of 
inspiring as much esteem as love. At your age, one need 
not think of entering into a serious engagement ; you 
have no occasion, then, to seek for friendship in a 
woman; you have nothing to look for but an agreeable 
person. 

The society of ladies of refined sentiment, of those 
whom the ravages of time have deprived of everything 
they could pride themselves upon, except their intellectual 
qualities, does well enough for men who, like them, are 
on their decline. 

But for you, such women would be really too good com- 
pany , if I may so express myself. We have no occasion 
for riches but in proportion to our wants. All you have 
to do at present, is to attach yourself to one, who, joined 
to an amiable person, has a politeness in her manners, a 
lively disposition, a taste for social pleasures, and whom 
a little sympathy of affection would not much alarm. 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


59 


HL 

Notwithstanding all I have said, you seem to adhere to 
your first prejudices. You would have a lady that you 
could respect and esteem, and who might at the same 
time become your friend. Such sentiments are certainly 
very commendable, if upon trial they could produce that 
happiness which one might reasonably expect from them. 
But experience will soon convince you that these fine ex- 
pressions are but empty sounds. 

To merely amuse the mind, must it be necessary to 
hunt after important qualities ? The reading of novels 
has almost impaired your understanding! The poor 
Marquis! he has allowed himself to be dazzled with the 
sublime theorems which are often the subjects of conver- 
sation. But, my dear friend, to what account will all 
these rational chimeras turn ? I shall freely give you my 
opinion of them. They are really most beautiful coun- 
ters; and oh, the pity they are not current ! 

When you intend to settle in life, look out for a woman 
of good sense, true virtue, and high principles; all these 
are perfectly consistent with the dignity — I had almost 
said the gravity — of a married state. But while gallantry 
is your object, beware of growing serious, and give credit 
to what I tell you. I know what will agree with you 
better than you do yourself. 

In general, men pretend that they covet essential 
qualities in love. Ignorant as they are, how much disap- 
pointed would they be if they were to meet with them ! 
What would they gain by being edified, when it was 
amusement only they had occasion for ? Such a rational 
lady as you contend for, would be — a wife ; for whom I 
acknowledge you might conceive an infinite deal of res- 
pect. But prithee what has become of the fondness? 
Gone ! A woman estimable in all particulars, would 
subject, would humble you too much, to admit of your 
loving her long. Compelled to esteem, to admire her 
sometimes, you could not avoid ceasing to love her soon. 
So much excellence would be a reproach direct, a critic 
too severe upon your own failings, not to make your pride 
revolt in time, and when once that is mortified, farewell 
love. 


60 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Analyze your sentiments strictly, examine closely into 
your own heart, and you will find this maxim true. I 
have but a moment to bid you adieu. 


IV. 

Upon my word, Marquis, you will soon drive me out of 
all patience. Dear ! how stupid you are sometimes ! I 
have your letter before me. You do not comprehend 
me. Attend a little better to what I say. I did not tell 
you to choose a fool to love ; nothing could be further 
from my intention. But I said, that for the present, you 
had in reality no manner of occasion for anything more 
than an amusing occupation of heart and mind ; and 
that to render such an engagement agreeable, one need 
not insist upon very superior qualities. 

I repeat it again. In love, men should look for noth- 
ing further than mere amusement, and I believe upon 
such a subject as this, that my opinion may obtain some 
credit. A little peculiarity of temper, a passing caprice, 
or a childish quarrel, have frequently great effect on men, 
and attach them more strongly than the most rational or 
solid characters. 

A person, whom you highly esteem for the strength 
and justice of his sentiments, once said to me, that “ ca- 
price was allied to beauty to be its antidote.” I fought 
him out upon his maxim, as I am fully of opinion that 
caprice was joined to beauty to animate its charms, and 
to enhance their value by adding spirit and pungency. 

There is no feeling more cold, or of shorter duration, 
than admiration. We grow insensibly indifferent to the 
same set of features, though ever so beautiful, and if there 
be not a little quickening spirit to give them life and ac- 
tion, their very uniformity will soon destroy the feelings 
they at first excited. A little change of temper is abso- 
lutely necessary to give to a fine woman that happy va- 
riety which prevents our growing weary of finding her 
always the same. In truth, it is unlucky enough for a 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


61 


woman to have too even a disposition ; the equality of 
her temper permits indifference to arise — perhaps dis- 
gust. It is always the same statue ; and a man contin- 
ues his own master — perfectly at ease before her ; and 
that liberty is sometimes so great a pleasure ! 

Place in her stead a woman, lively, uncertain, froward, 
but these only to a certain degree. The scene is changed; 
the lover meets in the same person with all the charms 
of variety — caprice is the salt of gallantry, that preserves 
it from corrupting. Disquietudes, jealousies, quarrels, 
piques, and reconciliations, are, if not the diet , at least 
the exercise of love. Enchanting variety ! that fills and 
occupies the sensible heart more charmingly, than all the 
regularity of deportment and tedious sameness of what 
are deemed the better characters. 

I know how to deal with you men. A little change of 
temper throws you into a state of uncertainty, and gives 
you as much trouble and uneasiness to dissipate, as if it 
were a new victory to be gained over a new love. A 
little flurry now and then keeps you in wind ; you will 
struggle and conquer and be overcome, by turns. In 
vain poor reason sighs ! You cannot conceive how such 
a meteor should lead you so implicitly about : every one 
tells you that the idol of your affections is a compound 
of vanity and caprice. But it is a spoiled child, and you 
cannot rid yourself of a childish fondness for it ! Even 
those efforts that reflection may force you to make in 
order to set you free, will often serve to bind your chain 
the faster. For love is never so strong as when we im- 
agine it ready to break from the resentment of a quarrel : 
its throne is tempest, and its empire convulsion ! Reduce 
it to the government of reason — it languishes ! it expires ! 

Upon the whole, I would not advise you to choose a 
lady whose sense and merit are predominant qualities, 
but one whose temper sometimes bears the sway, and 
silences proud reason. Otherwise, be assured that it will 
not long continue a frolic of gallantry ; and you may as 
well marry and settle in the country. These are my last 
words. Adieu. 


62 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Y. 

Yes, Marquis, I agree with you, that a woman who is 
only a compound of whim and caprice, would make but 
a disagreeable companion, and must disgust in the end. 
I acknowledge also, that a constant irregularity of temper 
would turn your answer, your metaphorical warfare, into 
a literal one. But then, indeed, it was not to a person 
of this sort that I advised you to address yourself. You 
always overshoot the mark. 

In my last letter I described an agreeable woman, who 
might be rendered still more engaging by a little inequal- 
ity of temper, with a spice of coquetry, etc. And you 
seem to speak to me of an arrant shrew, who is continu- 
ally untoward and perverse. What different characters 
are here! When I mentioned temper, I meant only that 
kind which arises from an earnestness of spirit. A cer- 
tain impatience of manner, with perhaps a little disposi- 
tion to jealousy. In a word, such a one as is born of love 
itself, and not the offspring of a natural perverseness 
that is frequently styled humor. 

When it is love that renders a woman unreasonable, 
when it is that alone which excites her impatience, what 
man can be so void of delicacy or fee lin g as to complain ? 
Do not such extravagances prove the strength of her 
passion ? For my part, I shall never be persuaded, that 
whoever can contain themselves within very reasonable 
bounds, were ever much in love. Can we be really so 
without suffering ourselves to be hurried away by the 
transports of a heartfelt affection ? without being sensi- 
ble of all those agitations which it necessarily creates? 
No, surely ; and who can perceive all these emotions in 
the beloved object without a flattering pleasure ? While 
they are rendered uneasy by her suspicions and resent- 
ments, they feel with a secret delight that they are be- 
loved — that they are passionately loved. And such ca- 
pricious behavior is so much further a convincing proof, 
as it is involuntary. 

This, my dear Marquis, is the secret charm that pays 
the lover’s pains and dries his tears. But if you could 
imagine f should tell you that an ill-tempered, absurd 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 63 

virago could supply the pleasures of love, I beg you to 
undeceive yourself forthwith. 

I said, indeed, and shall ever persist in my opinion, 
that there must be a little peculiarity of temper, some 
caprice, and a sensible emotion in an affair of gallantry, to 
prevent it growing languid, and to render it lasting. But 
it is very certain that these seasonings will not naturally 
answer the end, except where they proceed from love 
alone. 

If a peculiar temper arises solely from an untoward na- 
ture, from a contrary, uneasy, or froward disposition, I 
should be in haste to pronounce it, that such a perverse 
nature must soon render a woman hateful, and occasion 
the most disgusting quarrels. Such a union must be- 
come a heavy chain, from which one should endeavor to 
free themselves as quickly as possible. Adieu. 


VI. 

And who doubts, Marquis, but it is real merit that 
renders you agreeable to women? All I desire to know 
is, what idea you attach to that expression. By real 
merit, do you intend a sound understanding, nice dis- 
cernment, great erudition, with prudence and discretion 
— in short, a heap of remarkable qualities that more fre- 
quently encumber than render you happy or successful ? 
If these be your ideas about merit, we certainly can never 
understand each other. 

Reserve such supreme virtues for your intercourse 
with men. They are agreed upon the value of these 
commodities. But in gallantry, exchange these rare and 
superior excellences for more common and familiar qual- 
ifications. These are the only coin that circulate in such 
a commerce. And let their intrinsic value be ever so 
low, they cease to be tokens when they have obtained 
currency : for true merit consists less, perhaps, in real 
perfection, than in what the world has agreed to receive 
as such. 


64 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


It is much more convenient to be master of qualities 
agreeable to those we wish to please, than to possess 
others which even those very persons themselves may 
acknowledge more estimable. In a word, we must copy 
the manners and imitate the foibles of those we associate 
with if we would live with ease or satisfaction among 
them. 

What is the proper destination of women ? What is 
the rdle you allow them in your drama? Is it not to 
soothe, to please, to charm ? The advantages of person, 
the graces of carriage, a liveliness in conversation, with 
a politeness of manners, are the surest qualifications for 
compassing these ends ; women possess these accomplish- 
ments in the supreme degree ; and it is in these they 
would have you likewise to excel. Call them triflers, if 
you dare. They perform the highest part who are 
formed and destined to render you happy. 

Is it not truly to the charms of our converse, and com- 
placency of our manners, that you are indebted for your 
sincerest pleasures, for all the social virtues : in a word, 
for your whole well-being ? Answer me ingenuously : 
learning, ambition, riches, valor, even friendship itself — 
of which, and with reason, you so much boast, are any, 
or all of these together, capable of rendering you perfect- 
ly happy ? Or, at least, the pleasures you receive from 
them, are they lively enough even to make you tolerably 
so ? Doubtless no. All these taken together would not 
be able to rid you of that stupid sameness of life which is 
so apt to oppress you ; and ye must have, in truth, re- 
mained the most pitiable creatures alive ! 

But it is the peculiar province of women to dissipate 
this mortal languor by the lively seasoning of their con- * 
verse, and the charms they are capable of diffusing over 
gallantry. A fond folly, a flattering hope, or an ardent 
wish, are the only things that can awaken your attention, 
and give you a true sense of happiness. For surely, 
Marquis, there is a vast difference between merely pos- 
sessing our good fortune, and relishing the pleasures of 
that enjoyment. 

The bare necessaries of life can only make a man easy ; 
it is superfluity that renders him rich, or makes him sen- 
sible that he is so. It is not superior qualities alone that 


NINON DE l’eNCLOS. 


65 


make us amiable ; it is perhaps a fault to be master of 
none but what are of real value. To be well received in 
the world, one must be agreeable, entertaining, servicea- 
ble to the pleasures of others. I assure you that there 
is no succeeding in general, but particularly with women, 
except by these means. 

Pray tell me, what business have we with your over- 
grown knowledge, the depth of your judgment, or the 
extent of your learning ? If you possess only such ad- 4 
vantages, if some slighter and more familiar talents do 
not soften and polish their uncouthness, so far from 
pleasing, you will appear a most formidable censor to 
them ; and the restraint you will then labor under must 
banish from their converse all that freedom, gaiety, and 
ease in which they would naturally indulge themselves 
before persons of less account ; nay, the very despair of 
succeeding would hinder them from even attempting to 
render themselves agreeable to men of a certain coldness 
in their manners, who are apt to examine everything 
with the calmness of philosophy, and will not permit 
themselves a careless freedom in conversation. The ease 
and cheerful delights of social intercourse are only to be 
enjoyed among those who are as heedless and unguarded 
as ourselves, affording us the same reciprocal advantages 
over them. 

In fine, too much circumspection has the same effect 
upon our minds that a cold air has upon our bodies. 
Reserve shuts up the doors of their hearts with whom we 
converse, and makes them cautious how they unfold them. 
You must then beware, Marcjuis, of striking a damp upon 
gallantry, by affecting to exhibit yourself only in your 
most imposing aspect. You may have read that people 
more often please by agreeable failings than by the most 
essential qualities. Great merits are like large gold 
pieces, which we make less use of than of smaller coin. 

This thought makes me recollect certain nations, who, 
instead of sterling metals, carry on their traffic entirely 
with shells. Now, prithee, do you not think these people 
are as rich as we, with all the bullion of the New World ? 
One might at first be apt to mistake their riches for pov- 
erty, till we reflect that gold and silver receive their value 
from our opinion only; and that our coin, among these 
people, would serve but for tokens. 


66 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


The qualities that you deem essential are to be rated 
after the same manner in gallantry : we have occasion 
there only for shells, and what signifies the medium of 
traffic while the commerce is carried on ? 

My conclusion, then, is fairly this. If it be true, which 
you cannot doubt, that your chief happiness must arise 
from the society of women, be assured that you can 
never render yourself agreeable to them but by such 
qualities as are analogous to their own. 

I return again. You men affect to value yourselves 
upon your sciences, learning, judgment, etc. But tell me 
candidly, how irksome would your lives become if you 
were condemned to be always rational, solid, and to 
spend your time entirely among philosophers ! I know 
you perfectly well ; you would grow very soon tired of 
admiring one another ; and, formed of such stuff as you 
are, you would more readily resign your excellences than 
your pleasures. 

Therefore, prithee, don’t deceive yourself by endeavor- 
ing to pass for a person of importance, in the sense you 
mistake it. True merit is that only which is so esteemed 
by those we would desire to please. Gallantry has its 
peculiar laws, Marquis. 

Agreeable fellows are the only sages of that province. 
Adieu. 


m 

I perceive, Marquis, that you have not very far to 
travel. Your hour is arrived at last. The account you 
give of yourself sufficiently proves you to be at length in 
love; and the young widow you mention is, indeed, very 

capable of inspiring that passion. The Chevalier de 

has given me a very favorable description of her. But 
the moment you begin to be sensible of the least uneasi- 
ness, you reproach me for the advice I have given you. 
The disquietude that arises in our breasts, with the other 


NINON DE l’eNCLOS.. 


67 


evils occasioned by love, appear, you say, more to be 
dreaded than all its pleasures are to be desired. There 
are, it is true, a sober kind of people who think the pains 
at least equal to the joys; but not to enter into a tedious 
disquisition on this subject, let me offer you my own 
opinion about the matter. Love, then, is a passion, or 
emotion of the soul, neither good nor evil in its own na- 
ture; it rests entirely upon the experience of its votaries, 
who, according as they have been differently affected, re- 
solve it, some into an evil, and others into a good. 

All that I need say in its favor is, that it is attended 
with one circumstance, which all the evils imputed to it 
are unable to counterpoise. It relieves our supineness, 
it excites us, and is, so far, of immediate advantage. I 
believe I told you before that our hearts are formed for 
emotion : and whatever rouses or actuates them, may be 
said to answer the design of nature. Oh ! what is life, 
without the relief of love ? A tedious malady. It is not 
existence — vegetation only ! 

Love is to our minds what winds are to the sea. They 
often raise storms there, indeed, and sometimes occasion 
shipwrecks, but then it is they which render it navigable ; 
and the very agitation they produce is necessary to pre- 
serve its virtues ; and if they render the voyage danger- 
ous, it is the pilot’s business to provide against the 
hazard. 

I return to my subject; and though your delicacy may 
be offended at my frankness, I shall add, that besides the 
necessity we labor under of something to keep us awake, 

we have within us a physical necessity for love I 

do not inquire whether it is right or wrong to admit the 
passion of love; we might as well enter into a disquisi- 
tion about thirst, and caution all the world against drink- 
ing, because some people are apt to get drunk. Since, 
then, it is not a matter within your own election, whether 
you shall have an appetite conformable to your physical 
natures or no, away with romantic notions, and never 
perplex yourself with computations upon the greater or 
lesser advantages of loving. Make use of this passion in 
the manner I have recommended to you. Let it be your 
amusement , but never your occupation. 

Now, dear Marquis, do not alarm yourself with pro- 


68 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


phetic conjectures upon the event of your attachment to 
the charming Countess, and you will perceive in the end 
that love in reality, such as can render us happy, instead 
of being considered as a very solemn affair, should be 
treated as no serious matter at all ; and particularly, 
ought always to be conducted with gaiety. Nothing will 
prove the truth of this maxim better than the event of 
your adventure ; for I fancy that the Countess is a 
woman by no means susceptible of serious impressions, 
and your sublime sentiments will make her yawn. Re- 
member, I tell you so. 

I have read my letter over, Marquis, and it puts me 
out of humor with you. I find gravity is infectious; and 
you may judge how much your lady must have been af- 
fected with it, when you have communicated it to me, 
even while I was endeavoring to cure you of the disorder. 
There is something singular in this, that to prove love 
ought to be treated with cheerfulness, I should be 
obliged to assume a serious air. Adieu. 


vm. 

I am pleased with your letter, Marquis ; would you 
know why ? Because it affords me a speaking proof of 
the truths I have been instructing you in for some time 
past. I find you have at length relinquished your meta- 
physics, and speak of the charms of the Countess with a 
certain warmth that betrays your sentiments to be not 
quite so refined as you would have me believe, nor as 
perhaps you really imagined them yourself. 

Tell me honestly, if love was not an effect of the 
senses, would you with so much pleasure contemplate 
that mien, those eyes, those teeth, those lips, you de- 
scribe in so enraptured a strain? If the qualities of her 
mind and understanding only had made the conquest of 
your heart, a woman fifty years of age, perhaps, would 
have served better for this purpose than the Countess. 
You see such a one every day; it is her mother. Pray 


NIKON DE LENCLOS. 


69 


why don’t yon fall in love with her? Why do yon 
neglect a hundred women of her age, of her homeliness, 
and her merit , who make advances to you, and would play 
the same formal part with you, that you perform before 
the Countess? 

Besides, why do you desire so earnestly to be distin- 
guished by her from any other man? Why so uneasy 
whenever she shows the least civility to any one else ? Her 
esteem for others, would it diminish that which she may 
have conceived for you ? Are there jealousies and rival- 
ries in metaphysics ? None that ever I heard of. I have 
friends myself, and I am not in the least uneasy when 
they pay their addresses to any other woman. 

Friendship is a sentiment that has no dependence on 
the senses; the soul alone receives the impression, and 
the mind loses nothing of its value, by yielding itself to 
several at the same time. Make a comparison between 
this and love, and you will quickly perceive the difference 
between a lover and a friend. You will then acknowledge 
that I am not, after all, so absurd as you thought me at 
first, and that you cannot yourself boast a heart less 
vulgar than the generality of plain, honest sort of people, 
whom you have been pleased to censure for their want of 
delicacy in this point. 

I would not, however, bring the charge against men 
only. I am frank, and am very certain that if women 
would be ingenuous they might likewise confess that they 
are not themselves in any respect more seraphic in this 
particular. If they imagined nothing more in love than 
the pleasures of intellect, and hoped to please by sense 
and character alone, why endeavor, with such assiduous 
pains, to charm by the beauty and ornament of their face 
and persons ? WTiat have a fine complexion and elegant 
form, a graceful fall in the shoulders, to do with the soul? 
What a contradiction here between the real sentiments 
and those they affect to make parade of ! See them , and 
you will be convinced that their whole design is to be 
admired for their outward attractions, making very little 
account of anything further. Hear them, and they would 
impose on your belief that their form and features are 
things which they hold in the slightest esteem. 

But I am, perhaps, too officious in endeavoring to dis- 


70 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


sipate your error in this matter. Might I not leave it to 
their own industry to clear up this point to you ? 
They would very shortly give you sufficient reason for 
changing your present sentiments with regard to this 
particular. 


IX. 

This is taking things most grievously to heart, Mar- 
quis ! Two whole nights without closing your eyes : this 
is love with a vengeance ! One can no longer have the 
least doubt upon that point. You have made your bps 
and eyes declare your passion in the most explicit man- 
ner; and yet she has not condescended to yield the least 
attention to your unhappy state. Such injustice cries 
aloud for vengeance ! Is it possible that after eight en- 
tire days of sighs and assiduities, she could be so hard- 
hearted as to refuse you even a glimpse of hope ? It is 
really what we cannot have the least notion of. So long 
a resistance can never pass for an historical fact. The 
Countess is a heroine of romance. But if you begin to 
lose patience already, consider what you might have still 
to suffer, if you had continued your former refined senti- 
ments. You have gained more ground already, in those 
same eight days you complain of, than the late swain 
would have done in as many months. 

But to speak seriously to you: is there any manner of 
justice now in your complaints ? You call the Countess 
ungrateful, insensible, scornful, etc. But prithee, tell me, 
what right have you to charge her so severely ? AVill you 
pay no sort of attention to what I have so often repeated 
to you ? Love is a very caprice, involuntary in the per- 
son whose heart is affected by it. Now answer me, why 
should you think one is obliged to any kind of gratitude, 
for a blind sentiment that has happened to seize you, 
without your own choice, or their concurrence ? There 
is something singular in you men! you resent it as an 
offence, if women do not return immediately the fond re- 


NINON DE L ENCLOS. 


71 


gard you condescend to bestow upon them; your revolted 
pride accuses them at once of injustice, as if it were their 
fault that your heads were turned; and that they were 
under a sort of obligation of being seized at a certain 
given time with the same disorder that you yourselves 
happened to be afflicted with. 

Is the Countess, I pray you, answerable for it, if her 
brain does not feel itself affected, at the same instant you 
begin to rave? Cease, then, either to accuse her, or 
lament yourself. Endeavor to communicate your own 
malady to her. I know you very well : you are engaging 
enough; perhaps she may too soon for her repose con- 
ceive such sentiments towards you as you could wish. 
Finally, I think that she has every quality necessary to 
make a complete conquest of your heart, and to inspire 
you with such a taste as may be requisite to render you 
happy. 

I do not imagine her capable of a serious attachment. 
Lively, careless, imperious, and capricious, she will 
probably afford you a good deal of work on your hands. 
A woman of an attentive, fond disposition, would suffer 
you to fall asleep. You must be treated with military 
discipline, to rouse and preserve you in a proper state of 
existence. Let a lady once play the part of a lover, and 
she will soon find herself neglected, — perhaps worse. 
The subject becomes a tyrant — treats her with a sort of 
carelessness or contempt, which leads finally to incon- 
stancy and disgust. 

You have then, luckily, met with everything you 
wanted in the charming fair who causes your present 
most dolorous martyrdom. Poor Marquis ! What a 
siege of troubles lie before you. How many squabbles 
do I foresee ! What piques, what determinations to leave 
her ! But remember well, that all these difficulties will 
become a real torment, while you continue to treat love 
like a hero of romance, and that they will be rather the 
seasonings of your pleasure, if you conduct yourself like 
a rational creature. 

Ought I not to cease from writing to you ? The mo- 
ments that you lose in reading my letters, are they not 
so many petty larcenies in love ? What an entertainment 
it would afford me to be a witness of your situation ! In 


72 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


reality, for an unconcerned spectator, can there be a more 
amusing object in the world than the antics of a man in 
love ? Adieu. 


X. 

* * * You are the more surprised, you say, at the 

coldness and reserve of the Countess, as you do not be- 
lieve them sincere : if I understand you this conjecture 
is framed from the indiscretion of her friends. The 
favorable things you hear she has said of you, even gave 
rise to the first regard you entertained for her. This is 
very like you men. The least favorable word that escapes 
a woman, immediately inclines them to believe she has 
some design or other upon them. They attribute this 
conquest at once to their own merit : vanity turns the 
simplest food to nutriment. Examined closely, you would 
be found to frequently love out of gratitude, and women 
in their turn are not much wiser in this particular. So 
that courtship is a kind of commerce, where we would, 
each of us, have the other party make advances; and like 
to think ourselves in each other’s debt ; and you know 
that true spirit is more ready to pay than to borrow. 

However, are we not apt sometimes to impose upon 
ourselves ? How often does it appear that persons who 
imagine they are but discharging an obligation, are, in 
reality, making the first advances ? If two lovers would 
sincerely explain themselves upon the rise and progress 
of their passion, what curious kinds of confessions we 
should have. ... I conclude from this, that in a 
strict sense, love is less the effect of that invincible sym- 
pathy so often pleaded, than of our own vanity. Observe 
the rise of all such attachments, and you will find them 
proceed from the mutual praises we bestow upon each 
other. It has been said, that folly is the source of love, 
but give me leave to assure you, it is flattery ; and that 
there is no inspiring the heart of a fine woman with this 
passion, till you have first paid your tribute to her vanity. 
To all this you may add, that the strong inclination we 


NINON DE L ENCLOS. 


78 


naturally have for loving, is the reason also of some illu- 
sion in this case. As enthusiasts, by the sole force of 
imagination, fancy they see in reality those objects 
towards which their superstition is attracted : so, also, 
we persuade our minds frequently into a belief of those 
sentiments in others which we would wish to inspire them 
with ourselves. 

Be careful then, Marquis, not to impose upon yourself 
by wrong conceptions ; the Countess might have spoken 
favorably of you, solely with the innocent design of ren- 
dering justice to your merit, without any farther view; 
and you may, perhaps, be returning her an act of injus- 
tice, by suspecting her of insincerity with regard to her 
present behavior to you. 

But after all, why should you not permit her to dis- 
semble her inclinations in your favor if you have really 
inspired her with any ? Have not women a prescriptive 
right for concealing their sentiments from men ? And 
does not the ungenerous advantage they are too apt to 
take of their fondness for them, sufficiently justify such 
conduct ? — Adieu. 


XL 

Well, Marquis, after a world of pains and assiduities, 
you think at last you have been able to soften that heart 
of adamant. I am really delighted at your success. But 
I cannot help smiling to find you interpret the sentiments 
of the Countess in the way you do. You share, with all 
your sex, an error from which it may be necessary to un- 
deceive you, however flattering it may be to contemplate. 

You conclude, one and all of you, that it is your pe- 
culiar merits alone inspire this passion in our hearts, and 
that your superior qualities of mind and understanding 
are the sole causes of the love we conceive for you. 
What a mistake is here ! But vanity is answerable for it 
all. Examine, if possible, without prepossession, what is 
the real motive that determines yourselves in such en- 
4 


74 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


gagements, and you will be soon convinced that you de- 
ceive yourself, that we impose upon you also, that, all 
things properly considered, you are the dupes of your 
own self-sufficiency, as well as of ours; and that the merits 
of the beloved object are nothing more than the occasion 
or pretence of love, and not its efficient cause. In short, 
that all this sublime theory, generally pleaded on the part 
of either, must ultimately be referred to the natural in- 
stinct which I formerly proposed, as the prime mover in 
this passion. I have told you a harsh and mortifying 
truth, but its severity renders it none the less certain. 
Women enter into life with this inclination undetermined; 
and if they choose one man in preference to another, let 
them honestly confess that they yield less to a knowledge 
of his merit than to a certain blind and mechanical im- 
pulse. 

Can there be a stronger proof of this matter than those 
indiscreet passions we are sometimes bewitched with for 
persons absolutely unknown to us, or, at least, for men 
whom we are not sufficiently acquainted with to be proper 
judges of their merits; and where, if we hit aright, must 
be the sole effect of hazard? We generally attach our af- 
fections without any sort of precaution; and it was a true 
parallel to compare love to an appetite which one is fre- 
quently sensible of for one sort of food rather than an- 
other, without being able to account for the preference. 

It is, I know, very cruel in me to dispel the illusions of 
your vanity; but the truth will out. You are flattered 
with being loved, because you imagine it supposes some 
considerable merit in the object beloved. But you com- 
pliment this passion too much, I assure you; or rather, 
you have too good an opinion of yourselves. Believe me, 
it is not for your sakes we are fond of you ; to be sincere 
in love, we desire only our own pleasure. Caprice, in- 
terest, vanity, temperament, or the getting rid of that 
weariness which oppresses us while the heart remains void 
of attachment — some one or more of these mean princi- 
ples are the source of all those elevated sentiments we 
are so apt to deify. 

In truth, it is not your noblest qualities which engage 
our affections; if they happen to enter into account 
among the reasons that determine us in your favor, it is 


NINON DE L ENCLOS. 


75 


not the heart which receives the impression, but our 
pride; and the greatest part of those things that render 
you agreeable to us, properly rated, would render you 
despicable or ridiculous perhaps in another place. 

Thus it is. We are partial to an admirer who will en- 
tertain us with the idea of our own excellence; we need 
some submissive slave to exercise dominion over; or, to 
speak more plainly, our minds may have acquired a taste 
for flirtation. Chance presents us with one lover instead 
of another; we accept, rather choose him. You fancy 
yourselves the object of disinterested affection; you im- 
agine that women love for your own sakes alone. Silly 
dupes ! you are but the minister of their pleasures, or the 
slave of their caprices. 

But, to do them justice, they are themselves fully as 
ignorant in this matter. The truths I here reveal have 
no more enlightened their understanding than they have 
yours. On the contrary, with all possible ingenuousness 
they really imagine themselves determined and governed 
entirely by those sublime notions that both your vanity 
and their own have equally inspired you with; and it 
would be, therefore, the height of injustice to tax them 
with any matter of insincerity in this particular; for, 
without the least consciousness of the matter, they first 
deceive themselves, and then impose on you. 

You see, Marquis, that I here betray to you the secrets 
of the Bona I)ea ; judge then of my friendship when I 
endeavor to instruct you at the expense of my own sex. 
The more you comprehend the nature of women, the 
fewer follies you will be led into on their account. Adieu ! 


XII. 

Can it be possible, Marquis ? Does the Countess really 
continue inflexible still ? The careless air with which she 
receives your addresses proclaims an indifference that 
drives you to despair ! 

Perhaps I may be able to solve this enigma for you. I 


76 


love in letters. 


i 


know you well ; you are gay, lively, and capable of ap- 
pearing to advantage before women you have no manner 
of attachment for; but where your affections happen to 
be in the least engaged — I have remarked it — -you imme- 
diately grow timid. Such behavior may, by chance, cap- 
tivate a country girl; but with women of fashion you 
must adopt quite a different style. 

The Countess knows the world. Take my advice — re- 
sign your sublime notions and lofty sentiments to the 
Celadons of the day; leave them to spin out such subtle 
systems. I can assure you, on the part of women, that 
there are few among us who would not prefer to be rather 
briskly than too gently wooed. Men, by their timidity, 
lose more women than virtue saves. 

The more awe a lover betrays, the more he interests 
our pride to inspire him with it; the more apprehension 
he seems to have about our resistance, the more respect we 
exact from him. If we were to speak our minds, we should 
say, “ For pity’s sake do not suppose us so inexorable ! 
You lay us under the necessity of appearing so. Do not 
set our conquest at so high a rate ; forbear to consider our 
defeat as an insuperable difficulty; accustom us by de- 
grees to see you doubt our indifference : very often the 
surest means to be beloved is to appear persuaded that 
one is already so.” 

An unreserved, careless manner of behavior sets our 
mind at ease. When we perceive a lover, though appear- 
ing satisfied with our regard, still continue to treat us 
with the respect our vanity requires, we are apt to draw 
a hasty conclusion that he will behave in the same man- 
ner after we have given him more evident proofs of our 
affection. 

What confidence does not this inspire us with ? What 
progress may he not flatter himself to make ? But should 
he afford us the least hint to keep on our guard, it is not 
then our hearts we have to defend, it is not our reluc- 
tance you have then to combat — it is our pride; and this, 
believe me, is the greatest enemy you have to conquer in 
women. 

In short, we endeavor to conceal it even from ourselves 
that we have permitted you to address us. Leave it in a 
woman’s power to equivocate with herself, suffer her to 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


77 


pretend that she has yielded to a sort of violence or sur- 
prise, let her perceive your esteem keep equal pace with 
your love, and I will answer to you for her heart. 

Treat the Countess according to her own character. 
She is full of gaiety and mirth, and one must in some sort 
play the fool to win her. Let her not even perceive that 
she distinguishes you from other men; be always cheerful 
as she is lovely and you will fix your empire in her heart 
before you warn her of your design. She will love you 
for some time without perceiving it herself, and will at 
once be surprised to find how far her passion has ad- 
vanced without her being sensible even of its first move- 
ment. Adieu ! 


xm. 

You will probably think me more inhuman even than 
the Countess. She is the author, indeed, of all your 
misery; but I carry my cruelty farther, by sporting with 
your distress. Oh, how I sympathize in your griefs ! No 
person can be more interested in them, and your situation 
appears most distressing to me ! For how can one make 
an explicit declaration of love to a woman who seems to 
take a malicious pleasure in evading every opportunity of 
the kind ? Sometimes she appears moved with compas- 
sion; and at others quite inattentive to everything you 
do to please her. She listens readily, and replies with 
cheerfulness to the compliments and gay address of a 
certain Count, who is but a petit-maUre in gallantry. 
While to you she answers seriously, or with an absent 
air. If you speak to her in a tender and affectionate 
tone, she puts you off indifferently, or immediately 
changes the discourse, all of which disquiets, intimidates, 
and drives you to despair. 

Poor Marquis ! But I do most assuredly promise you 
that all this betokens a true and real passion. The ab- 
sent manner she affects before you, and the heedless air 
with which she distinguishes her sentiments, ought to 
convince you that in reality she is very far from being in- 
different. 


78 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


But your want of courage, the consequences she ap- 
prehends from such a passion as yours, the sympathy she 
already feels with your situation, all these alarm her; and 
it is you, in reality, that fetter and constrain her beha- 
vior. A little more resolution on your part would soon 
set you both at liberty. Remember what Rochefoucault 
says : — “ A man of sense may be in love like a madman, 
but ought never, nor can be so like a fool.” 

In fine, when you draw a comparison between your re- 
spect, your esteem, and the free, but rather too familiar 
manners of the Count — when you frame a conclusion 
that you ought to have the preference on this account, 
you are not aware with how little justness you reason in 
this particular. The Count is merely gallant. All he 
says is of no manner of consequence, and passes but as 
words of course. Vanity alone, and a habit of paying 
compliments to every woman he meets, make up the w r hole 
of his character. Love goes for nothing, or but for a 
mere trifle in all his attachments. Like the butterfly, he 
rests upon each flower but for an instant. A passing 
amusement is all his object. So light a character is not 
capable of alarming a woman. The Countess perceives 
with pleasure how little danger there can be in receiving 
the addresses of such an admirer as this; she knows per- 
fectly well how to estimate the attentions of the Count ; 
and to say all in one word, she considers him as a person 
whose heart is entirely exhausted. There is no woman, 
let her metaphysical notions be ever so pure, but knows 
very well how to make a distinction between a lover of 
this sort and such a one as you are. Therefore you will 
appear more formidable, and will be really more to be 
feared, from the manner in which you conduct yourself. 
You boast of your respect and esteem. But I answer, 
you have neither one nor the other; and the Countess is 
very sensible of this herself. Nothing has a purpose less 
respectful than such a passion as yours — very different 
from the Count, you exact acknowledgments, preferences, 
returns, nay, sacrifices, all which the Countess per- 
ceives at one view. Or at least, if under the cloud that 
envelopes you at present, she cannot distinguish these 
pretensions so clearly, nature has given her certain pre- 
sentiments of what it may cost her, should she indulge 


NINON DE L'ENCLOS. 79 

you in the least opportunity of instructing her in a pas- 
sion which perhaps she partakes with you already. 

Women seldom examine closely the reasons which de- 
termine them either to resist or yield. They do not 
trouble themselves with investigating or defining. But 
they have a sort of sensibility about the matter, and their 
sentiment is just. It serves them in the place of knowl- 
edge and reflection. It is a kind of instinct, which directs 
them often upon difficult occasions, and conducts them, 
perhaps, as safely as the most enlightened reason could 
do. 

Your charming Adelaide would then play the incognito 
upon you as long as she could. This scheme is very con- 
formable to her real interest; and I am persuaded that it 
is not the result of any reflection; nor does she perceive, 
on the other hand, that a. passion untowardly restrained, 
makes but the stronger impression and greater progress 
within. Supply it then with fuel, and give that fire she 
endeavors to smother, time to inflame the heart in which 
she strives to conceal it. 

Upon the whole, Marquis, you must be of opinion with 
me, that you have been mistaken in two material points 
relative to this business. You imagined that you had 
more respect for the Countess than the Count had. But 
you will find that his addresses have no material design, 
while yours aim directly at her heart. Again, you appre- 
hended that the absent, indifferent, and inattentive air 
with which she received your devoirs, were proofs or pre- 
sages of your misfortune. Undeceive yourself, for there 
cannot be a more certain sign of a passion than the ef- 
forts made to disguise it. In a word, whenever the 
Countess begins to treat you with the least indulgence, 
while you continue to give tokens of your attachment to 
her — when she perceives you, without resentment, ready 
to make an explicit declaration of your fond sentiments 
towards her — I promise you her heart then is yours, and 
you may rejoice in a reciprocal passion. 


80 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


XIV. 

I have some new reflections, Marquis, upon the situa- 
tion you are in, and the embarrassment you seem to labor 
under at present. But after all, prithee, what necessity 
for making a formal declaration of love? Is it because 
you have read in romances that they proceeded as meth- 
odically in gallantry as in a court of justice ? This is too 
formal a process, believe me. Suffer, as I said before, the 
flame to light up itself, and acquire new force, and you 
will find, without having in terms expressed your passion, 
you will be advanced farther than if you had made one 
of those express declarations at which our grandmothers 
say women should be so much alarmed. 

A confession, absolutely unnecessary in itself, and 
which generally casts a cloud over an amour for some 
time — it suspends its progress. Take my word for it, 
Marquis, a woman persuades herself she is beloved much 
better by what she herself observes than by anything the 
lover can say to her. 

Behave yourself as if you had already made the decla- 
ration you are in so much pain about: attend to the 
Count, imitate his careless manner. Her behavior to- 
wards him, methinks, seems to prescribe a rule of con- 
duct to you. With your overstrained respect and cir- 
cumspect air you appear a person who has some deep de- 
sign in contemplation, one who is going to attempt some 
desperate thing. Your whole deportment must neces- 
sarily alarm a woman who knows the consequences of 
such a passion as yours. Be assured that while you suffer 
her to perceive your preparations for an attack, you will 
always find her under arms. 

Have you ever known an experienced general, when he 
had formed the design of surprising a town, make known 
to the enemy by his motions upon which side he meant 
the assault ? In love, as in war, is the conqueror ever to 
account whether he owes his success to force or tact ? 
He has vanquished — he receives the laurel — his hopes are 
accomplished — he is happy. Follow his example, and 
you may obtain the same fortune. Conceal your march, 
disguise your designs, till opposition is vain, till the bat- 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


81 


tie is fought and victory secured, before you have de- 
nounced war. In a word, imitate those heroes whose en- 
terprises are only known by the happy event that attends 
them 


XV. 

At length, Marquis, she has heard you without resent- 
ment declare your passion to her, and vow by all that 
lovers hold most sacred, that you will worship eternally 
Will you believe my prophecy another time ? However, 
she would treat you with less reserve, she pretends, if 
you would be a reasonable person, and limit your senti- 
ments within the bounds of simple friendship, the very 
name of lover shocks the Countess. Prithee do not differ 
with her about titles, provided, in the main, that the mat- 
ter is the same; and follow the advice that Monsieur de 
la Sabliere gives you in the following stanza : 

“ Belinda will not yield to love, 

But wishes for a friend sincere, 

Whose tender conduct still should prove 
His fond regard and anxious care : 

And also should esteem her fair, 

Lovers, with caution urge your claim, 

She only hates of Love— the Name. 

But she distracts you with injurious suspicions about 
your sincerity and constancy : she refuses to believe you, 
because most men are false and perjured: she refrains 
from loving you, because they are generally inconstant. 
How happy are you, and how little does the Countess 
know her own heart, if she thinks this is the way to show 
you her indifference ! Shall I give you the import of her 
conversation with you ? She is touched with the passion 
you express towards her; but the complaints and misfor- 
tunes of her friends have made her apprehend that the 
protestations of lovers are generally false. 

I think, however, that there is some injustice in this 
censure : for I, who am not apt to flatter your sex, am 


82 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


really persuaded that they are almost all sincere upon 
such occasions as these. They become enamored of a 
lady, that is, they feel a strong desire to possess her 
charms. The fond idea which their imagination forms 
of this enjoyment, deceives them into a warm opinion 
that the pleasures they have attached to it will end only 
with life. They never once dream that the flame in their 
hearts w ill sooner or later abate its fervor, languish, and 
finally become extinct. 

This, though so certain an event, appears to them, at 
that time, beyond all possibility; therefore, they really 
swear eternal constancy to us, with all the ingenuousness 
imaginable; and to suspect them would be a mortal in- 
jury to their veracity. But the poor ignorants promise 
more than they are capable of performing, not being 
aware that their hearts are formed of a substance solid 
enough to retain always the same impression. 

They cease to love without knowing why — they even 
feel a kind of scruple when they first begin to cool — they 
go on protesting yet, after their passion is extinct — they 
still hold the course till after having jaded themselves in 
vain, they submit to indifference or disgust, and become 
inconstant with the same sincerity as when they made 
eternal vows to the contrary. 

Nothing can be more natural than all this. The emo- 
tion that a growing passion had excited in their breasts 
conjured up the spell that deceived them. The charm 
dissolves, the passion subsides. What crime can be im- 
puted to the lover upon this account ? He actually im- 
agined he could forever preserve his constancy at the 
time of making his protestations. And perhaps women 
may as frequently rejoice at this infidelity, because it 
eases them of a restraint over the fickleness of their own 
dispositions. 

But to return. The Countess charges you with the in- 
constancy of your sex ; she fears you may become faith- 
less, like the generality of lovers ; ready to yield upon 
plausible assurances, she ever solicits you for arguments 
to strengthen her opinion of your sincerity. The passion, 
then, you profess towards her does not in the least offend 
her. Offend her! it delights her. It flatters her so 
charmingly, that her sole uneasiness is, lest it should not 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


83 


be sincere. Dissipate her fears, make her believe tlie 
happiness yon proffer, and which she already knows how 
to prize, is not ideal, but a real bliss. Proceed farther, 
and try to persuade her that it will not end till life itself 
shall cease. Her resistance grows faint, her doubts re- 
solved, and with what willing assent does she yield to 
the slightest arguments tending to remove her suspicion 
and disquiet. 

Women are much mistaken if by their doubts with re- 
gard to the sincerity and constancy of men, they mean to 
declare their indifference or avoidance of the pleasures 
of loving. When they express their fears lest the happi- 
ness itself may fall short of expectation, or that your in- 
constancy may render it so, do they not already betray a 
fond presentiment, and may not all their fears be reduced 
to one only — that of being too soon deprived of their 
imagined Elysium ? Hesitating between this fear, and a 
strong passion for pleasure, they become apprehensive, 
even from the imperfect view they then have of it, that 
they may perhaps be too sensibly affected at its loss. 

In fine, Marquis, you may suppose that every woman 
who speaks to you in the style of the Countess, addresses 
you after this manner: “ I have a very high notion of the 
pleasures of love : the idea I have framed of them is the 
most bewitching thing in the world: you may rest as- 
sured, then, that I am as little indifferent to the enjoy- 
ment of them as you yourself can be. But, the more 
my mind is transported with this idea, the greater my 
dread is lest it should all prove a fond chimera; and I 
only decline this happiness from an apprehension of see- 
ing it terminate too soon. Could I have any tolerable 
security that it would be permanent, how feeble my re- 
sistance would be ! But will you not abuse my credulity ? 
May I not be one day punished for my too great con- 
fidence in you ? Alas, how soon may that day arrive ! 
O ! if I could hope to enjoy, even for any reasonable time, 
the social pleasures of a mutual passion, all farther dis- 
pute upon this subject should be immediately at an end.” 


84 


LOVE IN LETTEIIS. 


XYI. 

The rival they have given you appears to me vastly 
formidable, from his being just such a person as I advised 
you to be. I know the Count. There is no one more 
capable of that address which draws in the inexperienced. 
I dare wager that his heart has. not yet received the 
slightest wound. He attacks the Countess in cold blood. 
You are a lost man. A lover as much enamored as you 
appear to be, commits a thousand indiscretions: the best 
concerted schemes miscarry in his hands : every moment 
he gives advantage against himself : such is his misfor- 
tune, that precipitation and timidity ruin him by turns; 
he loses a thousand of those little opportunities which 
always gain some ground. On the contrary — a man who 
makes love for an amusement only, profits himself of the 
slightest occasions; nothing escapes him; he observes the 
progress he makes, he watches every opportunity, and 
turns them to his own advantage ; everything conspires 
to further his hopes : his very indiscretions are often the 
effect of deliberation, and favor his success, till at length 
he acquires such a superiority, that he almost ventures to 
name the day of his triumph. 

Beware, Marquis, of pressing on too fast ; do not be- 
tray passion enough to make the Countess depend too 
much on the excess of your fondness : let her feel dis- 
quieted in her turn ; oblige her to take some pains on her 
part to secure her conquest, from the fear you should 
purposely give her of losing it. Women never treat you 
so cavalierly as when they think you are too deeply en- 
gaged to quit them. Their virtue, less than their pride, 
renders them intractable. Like merchants before whom 
you betray too great a liking for their goods, they rise 
upon you with as little conscience. Moderate, then, your 
imprudent earnestness. Show less of love, and you will 
excite the more. We never set so high a value upon any 
good as at the moment we fear to lose it. A little policy 
in love is absolutely necessary to the happiness of both. 
I might proceed farther, and advise you even to employ 
a little artifice. Upon all other occasions ’tis certainly 
better rather to be the dupe than the knave. But in gal- 


ftlftON DE L’ENCLOS. SB 

lantry fools only are the dupes, and the knaves have 
always the laughers on their side; 

I was about to conclude, but cannot find it in my heart 
to do so, without affording you one word of consolation. 
I would not discourage you. However formidable the 
Count appears to be, you ought not to despair. I sus- 
pect that the finessing Countess has brought him into 
play merely to excite your jealousy. I do not mean to 
compliment you, but have the pleasure to assure you that 
you have infinitely more merit than he. You are young, 
just entering into life, and have not yet loved. The Count 
has loved. Where is the woman insensible to this differ- 
ence ? Adieu. 


xvn. 

You would use integrity in love, Marquis! You are 
far gone, truly. I shall not show your letter. You 
would be made a jest of. You cannot, you say, employ 
the artifice I advised you to do. Your candor and re- 
fined sentiments might have raised your character in by- 
gone days. Love was then considered as an affair of 
honor and punctilio. But now-a-days, since the corrup- 
tion of the times has quite changed our notions, it is 
treated merely as a sport of vanity or caprice. Your in- 
experience has left a stiffness in your morals that will 
certainly demolish you if your good sense does not make 
you bend to the manners of the age. 

We must not, now-a-days, keep a window in our breast. 
All is grimace ; we must put on complaisance, professions, 
and outward show : it is a universal comedy, and the 
world is very much in the right to perform it. Society 
would soon be at an end were we mutually to declare our 
true sentiments to each other, the bad along with the 
good. The necessary intercourse of mankind obliged 
them to lay aside this uncouth sincerity, and to assume a 
certain polished phrase and flattering address in the 
place of it. 

This habit obtains by degrees in courtship ; and, not- 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


86 

withstanding your nice scruples, you must agree that, 
when the manners of politeness are not employed to 
ridicule or deceive, they are to be reckoned among the 
social virtues — and the commerce in which it is most 
necessary to disguise our sentiments is courtship. Upon 
many occasions a lover gains as much by concealing the 
greatness of his passion as he does upon others by feign- 
ing it. 

I know the Countess, her character. She has more ad- 
dress than you. I dare say that she dissembles her 
affections for you with as much pains as you take to 
multiply the proofs of yours. I must repeat it again. 
Be less assiduous, and you will be better received. Make 
her jealous in her turn. Give her fears of losing you. I 
will warrant then you soon will find her more complaisant. 
It is at least the surest way of knowing the rank you 
hold in her affections. Adieu. 


xvm. 

A ten days’ silence, Marquis ! I really began to feel 
uneasy. The application of my advice, then, has proved 
successful. I wish you joy of it. But I am angry with 
you for being chagrined because she would not make 
you a formal confession. The I love you , it seems, is a 
precious expression with you. During this fortnight 
you have been endeavoring to penetrate the senti- 
ments of the Countess, and have at length ascer- 
tained them. You have discovered her regard for you. 
What more can you desire? Would a simple confession 
give you greater power over her heart ? There is some- 
thing impolitic in this conduct ; for do you know that 
nothing is more apt to disgust a woman of any refine- 
ment than the insisting upon that very expression she 
has withheld from you? You. are much mistaken. To a 
lover of true delicacy, this refusal would be infinitely 
preferable to an explicit declaration. 

Would you understand your true interest? Instead of 
pressing your lady upon this point, you should endeavor 


NINON DE l’eNCLOS. 


87 


father, as I told you before, to conceal from herself the 
progress of her attachment towards you. Contrive to 
win her affections before she perceives your design ; and 
conceal it as much as possible even from her own obser- 
vation. 

Can one imagine a situation more charming than that 
of perceiving a heart interested in our behalf, without 
the least consciousness in itself; growing warm by de- 
grees, and melting away to the most perfect tenderness? 
What transport to rejoice in secret over all its emotions, 
to guide, to augment, to precipitate them, and to con- 
gratulate one’s self on the victory, before the yielding 
fair one has surmised even a suspicion of the siege. 
These are what I style pleasures indeed ! 

Attend to me, Marquis; behave yourself towards the 
Countess as if the confession had already escaped her. 
Perhaps you may never be able to prevail on her to pro- 
nounce the words, I love you ; but it is because she really 
loves you that she will not say so ; while, at the same 
time, she is doing everything necessary to convince you 
of it. Women labor under great difficulties: they are at 
least as willing as you to acknowledge the passion you 
have inspired them with. But what would you have them 
do, Marquis ? Men, most ingenious to forge shackles for 
themselves, have affixed a certain shame to the confes- 
* sion of our passion ; and, whatever notions you may have 
framed of our manner of thinking, believe me that this 
same declaration is always a mortifying circumstance to 
us. Those who have the least knowledge of the world 
must be very sensible of the consequences. The I love 
you , in itself, is certainly a very innocent expression; but 
the effects attending it must necessarily alarm us. It 
rests upon you, then, to conceal them from us, and to 
shut our eyes upon the precipices to which you are lead- 
ing us. 

Besides, Marquis, attend to this nice point. Your ob- 
stinacy in persisting in this confession is less the effect of 
love than of vanity; and you will find it a difficult matter 
to deceive us about the real motives of your instances. 
Nature has endowed us with an admirable instinct; and 
has taught us to distinguish with great precision what 
arises from the passion itself, and what is different from 
it. 


88 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Ever indulgent to the effects produced by the love we 
have ourselves inspired, we freely pardon you the indis- 
cretions, the extravagances — the whole catalogue of follies 
you lovers are liable to. But you will always find us in- 
tractable whenever your pride attempts to combat ours. 
It is hardly to be credited, but you often disgust us by 
things which are by no means necessary to your own 
happiness. Your vanity grasps at shadows , while sub- 
stances escape you. 

If you would govern yourself by my judgment, turn 
aside from this vain pursuit, begin to enjoy a surer earn- 
est of your triumph, taste the dear pleasure of hiding 
this secret from her own heart, and suffer her for awhile 
to rejoice in her insolvent security. Suppose that your 
importunities should at length wrest this so envied phrase 
from her lips, what more certain advantage would you 
gain by it ? Your doubts, would they then cease ? Could 
you rest satisfied whether you owed this expression to 
complaisance or to love ? 

I know women perfectly well. They may deceive by 
premeditated action or deliberate speech; but the in- 
voluntary tokens of a passion they are striving to con- 
ceal bear sure and certain testimony. In short, the con- 
fessions truly flattering are never those we make, but 
those that escape us. 


XIX. 

Will y°u pardon me, Marquis ? I laugh at your af- 
flictions ! You take things extremely to heart ! Some 
indiscretions of yours have raised the resentment of the 
Countess, and your disquietude is inexpressible. You 
kissed her hand with an emphasis that was taken notice 
of by the company; she showed public marks of her dis- 
pleasure; and the constant preferences you observe 
toward her, ever mortifying to other women, have exposed 
you to the piqued railleries of the Marchioness, her sis- 
ter-in-law. 


NINON BE L'ENCLOS. 


89 


These are, in sad truth, most unfortunate events ! But 
are you really so simple as to betake yourself to despair, 
upon the outward appearance of such a quarrel, without 
conceiving the least hope of an inward forgiveness ? It 
is left for me, then, to reassure your courage; and to this 
end I shall be forced to reveal some more of our female 
mysteries to you. I cannot upon every occasion make 
apologies for our sex — I owe you frankness, I have pro- 
mised it — and I acquit myself. 

Women are generally actuated by two incompatible 
passions — the desire of pleasing and the fear of shame. 
Judge then our embarrasment ! On the one hand, we 
are ardent to have witnesses of the effects of our charms. 
Forever occupied in endeavoring to make ourselves no- 
ticed, and delighted at every opportunity of humbling 
other women, we would render them spectators of every 
homage paid to us, and of all the preferences we obtain. 
Would you know wherein the pleasure lies here ? In 
mortifying the pride of our rivals merely. Those indis- 
cretions which betray the sentiments we have inspired, 
delight us in proportion to their despair. In short, such 
imprudences convince us better of your passion than the 
timidity and caution which are incapable of celebrating 
our charms. 

But, on the other hand, what bitterness alloys our 
sweetest pleasures ! Blended with these advantages are 
the malice of our rivals, and perhaps the contempt of our 
lovers. Besides, another hard case is, that the world 
knows no difference between those who receive addresses 
and those who reward them. Alone, or in sober thought, 
every rational woman would prefer the character of chas- 
tity to the fame of beauty. But place the best of us in 
competition with a rival, and no consideration is of equal 
weight with the triumphant pleasure of seeing herself 
preferred. 

You will receive your preferences in turn; she will im- 
agine at first that she pays them to gratitude alone; but 
you will find them earnests of her affection. Avoiding 
to appear ungrateful, we exceed to fondness. Your in- 
discretions, then, never offend us. When we seem to re- 
sent, it is because we would save appearances, and that 
you would be yourselves the first to censure a too remiss 
indulgence. 


90 


LOVE IN LETTEBS. 


XX. 

The Countess, it seems, is at present on the defensive. 
You think she has now no other design but to prove 
your attachment. Whatever preferences you mark to- 
ward her, however indiscreetly you testify your passion, 
she receives them all without resentment — the least apol- 
ogy silences her reproofs, and her piques have something 
so engaging in them, that you even lay traps to provoke 

them. 

I rejoice heartily with you in the pleasure that such 
a success must afford you. But, however these proceed- 
ings may flatter you, if you have any esteem for her, 
you should endeavor to put an end to them. Women, 
who have any sense, or the least regard for their reputa- 
tions, but little understand their true interests, in multi- 
plying thus, by an affected incredulity, the occasions of 
censure. Must they not know that it is not their weak- 
est points that most affect their characters ? The doubts 
they pretend about the passion they have inspired, do 
them often more injury even than their defeat itself. 

While they remain incredulous, a thousand imprudences 
expose them. They break bulk, and vend their reputa- 
tions by retail. While a lover finds them still dubious of 
his attachment, he throws aside all reserve, whenever he 
meets with any opportunity of showing the sincerity of 
his professions. The most indiscreet earnestness, the 
most distinguished preferences, and the most unguarded 
solicitude, appear to him the surest method of conviction. 
And can he make ostentation of all these cares and as- 
siduities, without having them taken notice of by the 
world — without piquing the pride of other women — with- 
out provoking their most censorious reflection ? 

As soon as preliminaries are settled, that is, as soon a- 
we begin to believe ourselves really beloved, nothing aps 
pears outwardly, nothing transpires. And if our engage- 
ment happens to be suspected, if our disguise is dis- 
covered, it must be from the recollection of what had 
passed before our affections were determined. I wish, 

then, for the sake of both parties, that whenever a woman 
perceives herself indifferent about a lover, instead of suf- 


NINON DE L’ENCLOS. 


91 


fering him to be amused by vain hopes, she would imme- 
diately give him his audience of leave. But at the same 
time, I would advise, that the moment she is persuaded 
she is truly beloved by a man she likes, she will acknowl- 
edge this conviction. Saving and reserving to herself, 
however, the dear right of obliging him to hope, fear, 
pray, and beseech as long as she thinks fit, before she 
confesses her reciprocal affection. For one cannot seem 
to doubt, without laying the lover under the necessity of 
proving his sincerity; and he cannot demonstrate it with 
success, without making the public his confidant by the 
too great earnestness of his devoirs. 

This advice would have been by no means necessary in 
former times, when the want of address in men suffered 
women to remain intractable. But now-a-days, that the 
resolution of the assailants leaves us so little power of 
defence — at present, when it is affirmed, that since the 
invention of gunpowder no fortress is impregnable — why 
should we expose ourselves to the tediousness of a siege 
in form, when it is certain, that after a great deal of loss 
and trouble, we must capitulate at last ? 

Then teach your charming Countess this prudent les- 
son — show her the inconveniences of any further diffi- 
dence ; you will convince her of your passion. You will 
force her to believe you, by the management she should 
have of her reputation, which will supply her with one 
reason more for according you a credit which she has 
perhaps been for some time in pain to refuse you. Fare- 
well. 


MADAME DE SEVIGNfe 


Marie de Kabutin Chantal, Marchioness de Sevigne, 
celebrated for her fine understanding and epistolary 
talents, was born at the Chateau de Bourdilly, in Bur- 
gundy, 1627. After the death of the Marquis de Sevigne, 
who was killed in a duel, she lived in widowhood for 
twenty-five years, devoted to the education of her two 
children. Her marriage was not a happy one, and hav- 
ing escaped the yoke of a connexion which proved un- 
fortunate, Madame de Sevigne was never tempted to 
contract a second, nor in that gallant age, was her con- 
duct tainted by the prevailing laxity of morals. Most of 
her famous letters were addressed to her daughter, 
Madame de Grignon, and it was to her son that the 
beautiful Ninon de L’Enclos sent the letters which appear 
in another portion of our volume. Madame de Sevigne’s 
death occurred in 1696. Macintosh said of her : “ She 
has so filled my heart with affectionate interest in her as 
a living friend, that I can scarcely bring myself to think 
of her as a writer, or as having a style;” and Lady Mon- 
tagu enviously described her as one “who only gives us, 
in a lively manner and fashionable phrases, mean senti- 
ments, only as prejudices, and endless repetitions. Some- 


MADAME DE SEYIGNE. 


93 


times the tittle-tattle of a fine lady, sometimes that of an 
old nurse ; always tittle-tattle ; yet so well gilt over by 
airy expressions and a flowing style, she will always 
please.” 


I 

MADAME DE SEVIGN& TO MADAME DE COULANGES. 

Pams, Monday, Dec. 15, 1670. 

I am going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the 
most surprising, the most marvellous, the most miraculous, 
the most magnificent, the most confounding, the most un- 
heard of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the 
most incredible, the most unforeseen, the greatest, the 
least, the rarest, the most common, the most public, the 
most private till to-day, the most brilliant, the most en- 
viable ; in short, a thing of which there is but one 
example in past ages, and that not an exact one either ; 
a thing that we cannot believe at Paris — how then will 
it gain credit at Lyons ? a thing which makes everybody 
cry, “ Lord have mercy upon us !” a thing which causes 
the greatest joy to Madame de Rohan and Madame de 
Hauterive; a thing, in fine, which is to happen on Sun- 
day next, when those who are present will doubt the evi- 
dence of their senses; a thing which, though it is to be 
done on Sunday, yet perhaps will not be finished on 
Monday. I cannot bring myself to tell you ; guess what 
it is. I give you three times to do it in. What, not a 
word to throw at a dog? Well, then, I find I must tell 
you. Monsieur de Lauzun* is to be married next Sunday 

at the Louvre, to , pray guess to whom ! I give you 

four times to do it in, I give you six, I give you a hundred. 
Says Madame de Coulanges, “ It is really very hard to 
guess ; perhaps it is Madame de la Yalhere.” Indeed, 


* Antonius Nompar de Caumont, Marquis de Puiquilhem, afterwards Duke oi 
Lauzun. 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


94 

madame, it is not. “ It is Mademoiselle de Ketz, then.” 
No, nor she neither; you are extremely provincial. “ Lord 
bless me,” say you, “ what stupid wretches we are ! it is 
Mademoiselle de Colbert all the while.” Nay, now you 
are still further from the mark. “ Why then it must 
certainly be Mademoiselle de Crequy.” You have it not 
yet. Well, I find I must tell you at last. He is to be 
married next Sunday, at the Louvre, with the King’s 
leave, to Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle de , Mademoi- 

selle — guess, pray guess her name; he is to be married to 
Mademoiselle, the great Mademoiselle ; Mademoiselle, 
daughter to the late Monsieur;* Mademoiselle, grand- 
daughter of Henry the Fourth ; Mademoiselle d’Eu; 
Mademoiselle de Dombes; Mademoiselle de Monpensier: 
Mademoiselle d’Orleans; Mademoiselle, the King’s cousin- 
german ; Mademoiselle, destined to the throne; Made- 
moiselle, the only match in France that was worthy of 
Monsieur. What glorious matter for talk ! If you should 
burst forth like a bedlamite, say we have told you a lie, 
that it is false, that we are making a jest of you, and that 
a pretty jest it is, without wit or invention; in short, if 
you abuse us, we shall think you quite in the right; for 
we have done just the same things ourselves. Farewell, 
you will find by the letters you receive this post, whether 
we tell you the truth or not. 


n. 


Paris, Friday, Dec. 19, 1670. 

What is called “falling from the clouds,” happened 
last night at the Tuileries; but I must go further back. 
You have already shared in the joy, the transport, the 
ecstasies of the Princess and her happy lover. It was 
just as I told you, the affair was made public on Monday. 
Tuesday was passed in talking, astonishment, and com- 
pliments. Wednesday, Mademoiselle made a deed of 


* Gaston of France, Duke of Orleans, brother to Louis XIII. 


MADAME DE SEYIGN^. 


95 


gift to Monsieur de Lauzun, investing him with certain 
titles, names, and dignities, necessary to be inserted in 
the marriage- contract, which was drawn up that day. 
She gave him then, till she could give him something 
better, four duchies ; the first was that of Count d’Eu, 
which entitles him to rank as first peer of France ; the 
Dukedom of Montpensier, which title he bore all that 
day; the Dukedom de Saint Fargeau, and the Dukedom 
de Chatellerault, the whole valued at twenty-two millions 
of livres. The contract was then drawn up, and he took 
the name of Montpensier. Thursday morning, which 
was yesterday, Mademoiselle was in expectation of the 
King’s signing the contract, as he had said that he would 
do; but, about seven o’clock in the evening, the Queen, 
Monsieur, and several old dotards that were about him, 
had so persuaded his majesty that his reputation would 
suffer in this affair, that, sending for Mademoiselle and 
Monsieur de Lauzun, he announced to them, before the 
Prince, that he forbade them to think any further of this 
marriage. Monsieur de Lauzun received the prohibition 
with all the respect, submission, firmness, and, at the 
same time, despair, that could be expected in so great a 
reverse of fortune. As for Mademoiselle, she gave a 
loose to her feelings, and burst into tears, cries, lamenta- 
tions, and the most violent expressions of grief ; she 
keeps her bed all day long, and takes nothing within her 
lips but a little broth. What a fine dream is here ! what 
a glorious subject for a tragedy or romance, but especially 
talking and reasoning eternally ! This is what we do day 
and night, morning and evening, without end, and with- 
out intermission; we hope you do the same, E fra tanto 
vi bacio le mani : “ and with this I kiss your hand.” 


in. 

Paris, Wednesday, Dec. 24, 1670. 

You are now perfectly acquainted with the romantic 
story of Mademoiselle and of Monsieur de Lauzun. It is 


96 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


a story well adapted for a tragedy, and in all tlie rules 
of the theatre ; we laid out the acts and scenes the other 
day. We took four days instead of four and twenty 
hours, and the piece was complete. Never was such a 
change seen in so short a time ; never was there known 
so general an emotion. You certainly never received so 
extraordinary a piece of intelligence before. M. de 
Lauzun behaved admirably ; he supported his misfortune 
with such courage and intrepidity, and at the same time 
showed so deep a sorrow, mixed with such profound 
respect, that he has gained the admiration of everybody. 
His loss is doubtless great, but then the King’s favor, 
which he has by this means preserved, is likewise great ; 
so that, upon the whole, his condition does not seem so 
very deplorable. Mademoiselle, too, has behaved ex- 
tremely well on her side. She has wept much and bit- 
terly ; but yesterday, for the first time, she returned to 
pay her duty at the Louvre, after having received the 
visits of every one there ; so the affair is all over. 
Adieu. 


IV. 


Paris, Wednesday, Dec. 31, 1670. 

I have received your answers to my letters. I can 
easily conceive the astonishment you were in at what 
passed between the 15th and 20th of this month ; the 
subject called for it all. I admire likewise your penetra- 
tion and judgment, in imagining so great a machine 
could never support itself from Monday to Sunday. 
Modesty prevents my launching out in your praise on 
this head, because I said and thought exactly as you did. 
I told my daughter on Monday, “ This will never go on 
as it should do till Sunday ; I will wager, notwithstand- 
ing this wedding seems to be sure, that it will never 
come to a conclusion.” In effect the sky was overcast 
on Thursday morning, and about ten o’clock, as I told 
you, the cloud burst. That very day I went about nine 
in the morning to pay my respects to Mademoiselle, 


MADAME DE SEYIGN t. 


97 


having been informed that she was to go out of town to 
be married, and that the coadjutor of Rheims * was to 
perform the ceremony. These were the resolves on 
Wednesday night, but matters had been determined 
otherwise at the Louvre ever since Tuesday. Mademoi- 
selle was writing ; she made me place myself on my 
knees at her bedside ; she told me to whom she was 
writing, and upon what subject, and also of the fine 
presents she had made the night before, and the titles 
she had conferred ; and as there was no match in any of 
the Courts of Europe for her, she was resolved, she said, 
to provide for herself. She related to me, word for 
word, a conversation she had had with the King, and ap- 
peared overcome with joy to think how happy she 
should make a man of merit. She mentioned, with a 
great deal of tenderness, the worth and gratitude of M. 
de Lauzun. To all which I made her this answer : 
“ Upon my word, Mademoiselle, your highness seems 
quite happy ; but why was not this affair finished at 
once last Monday ? Do not you perceive that the delay 
will give time and opportunity to the whole kingdom to 
talk, and that it is absolutely tempting God, and the 
King, to protract an affair of so extraordinary a nature 
as this is to so distant a period ?” She allowed me to 
be in the right, but was so sure of success, that what I 
said made little or no impression on her at the time. 
She repeated the many amiable qualities of Monsieur de 
Lauzun, and the noble house he was descended from. 
To which I replied in these lines of Corneille’s Polyeuc- 
tus : 


Du moms on ne la peut blamer d’un mauvais choix, 
Polyeucte a du nom, et sort du sang des rois.f 

Upon which she embraced me tenderly. Our conver- 
sation lasted above an hour. It is impossible to repeat 
all that passed between us, but I may without vanity 
say that my company was agreeable to her, for her heart 
was so full that she was glad of any one to unburden it 


♦ Charles Maurice le Tellier. 
t Her choice of him no one can surely blame. 

Who springs from kings, and boasts a noble name. 


98 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


to. At ten o’clock she devoted her time to the nobility, 
who crowded to pay their compliments to her. She 
waited all the morning for news from Court, but none 
came. All the afternoon she amused herself with putting 
M. de Montpensier’s apartment in order, which she did 
with her own hands. You know what happened at 
night. The next morning, which was Friday, I waited 
upon her, and found her in bed ; her grief redoubled at 
seeing me ; she called me to her, embraced me, and 
overwhelmed me with tears. 

“ Ah !” said she, “ you remember what you said to me 
yesterday ? What foresight ! what cruel foresight !” 
In short, she made me weep to see her weep so violently. 
I have seen her twice since ; she still continues in great 
affliction, but behaves to me as to a person that sympa- 
thizes with her in her distress ; in which she is not mis- 
taken, for I really feel sentiments for her that are 
seldom felt for persons of such superior rank. This, 
however, between us two and Madame de Coulanges ; 
for you are sensible that this chit-chat would appear 
ridiculous to others. 


$ 


KING CHARLES II. 


The author of the subjoined letter addressed to his 
queen was the Merry Monarch, Charles Stuart, born in 
the year 1630. He was the third king of the Stuart dy- 
nasty, who reigned over Great Britain. Charles H. was 
restored to the throne in 1660, after the poor, weak, good 
Richard Cromwell had broken down under the weight of 
his father’s truncheon. The most noteworthy events of 
his reign were the wars with Holland, Denmark, and 
France; and the execution of Lords Russell and Sidney 
in 1684. For a fair picture of the habits and customs 
of that interesting period of English history, readers 
may consult with great advantage the inimitable Diary 
of the quaint and garrulous Samuel Pepys, or a little 
brochure recently published, entitled, “Mr. Secretary 
Pepys, with Extracts from his Diary.” Charles, poor, 
vicious soul, whose name it is best to speak lightly and 
forget, and who once said to his brother and successor, 
the Duke of York, “ No one will kill me to make you 
king,” died in 1685. The queen survived her merry hus- 
band twenty years. It was of Charles the Second that 
the following epigram was written by the Earl of Roch- 
ester : 


“Here lies the mutton-eating king, 
Whose word no man relies on ; 
Who never said a foolish thing, 

Nor ever did a wise one.” 


100 


KING CHARLES IL 


CHARLES n. TO CATHARINE OF BRAGANZA. 

My Lady and Wife : 

Already, at my request, the good Count da Ponte has 
set off for Lisbon; for me, the signing of the marriage 
has been great happiness; and there is about to be dis- 
patched at this time after him one of my servants, charged 
with what would appear necessary: whereby may be de- 
clared, on my part, the inexpressible joy of this felicitous 
conclusion, which, when received, will hasten the coming 
of your Majesty. 

I am going to make a short progress into some of my 
provinces; in the meantime, whilst I go from my most 
sovereign good, yet I do not complain as to whither I go, 
seeking in vain tranquillity in my restlessness, hoping to 
see the beloved person of your Majesty in these kingdoms, 
already your own, and that with the same anxiety with 
which, after my long banishment, I desired to see myself 
within them, and my subjects, desiring also to behold me 
amongst them, having manifested their most ardent 
wishes for my return, well known to the world. The 
presence of your Serenity, only wanting to unite us, un- 
der the protection of God, in health and content, I de- 
sire. 

I have recommended to the Queen, our lady and 
mother, the business of the Count da Ponte, who, I must 
here avow, has served me in what I regard as the greatest 
good in this world, which cannot be mine less than it is 
that of your Majesty; likewise, not forgetting the good 
Richard Russell, who labored on his part to the same end. 

The very faithful husband of your Majesty, whose hand 
he kisses. Charles Rex. 

London, 2nd of July, 1661. 

To the Queen of Great Britain, my wife and 
lady, whom God preserve. 


SAMUEL PEPYS. 


'-The immortal Diarist, Samuel Pepys, son of a London 
tailor, was born at Brompton, England, in 1632, and died 
in the year 1703. The comic love affair between Mr. 
Carteret, and Miss Montagu, daughter of Pepys, patron, 
described in the following extracts, occurred at the period 
in which London was devastated by the plague. The line 
of courtship adopted by the timid wooer has a striking 
resemblance to that pursued by that model of bashful 
lovers — Master Slender. “All other things well,” says 
Samuel, “especially a new interest I am making by a 
match in hand between the eldest son of Sir G. Carteret 
and Lady Jemimah Montagu.” Our readers will be 
amused with the story of the courtship, which was in ac- 
cordance with the old saw, 

“Happy is the wooing that is not long a doing.” 

July 14 th. I by water to Sir G. Carteret’s, and there 
find my Lady Sandwich buying things for my Lady Jem.’s 
wedding: and my Lady Jem. is, beyond expectation, come 
to Dagenhams, where Mr. Carteret is to go to visit her 
to-morrow; and my proposal of waiting on him, he being 
to go alone to all persons strangers to him, was well ac- 
cepted, and so I go with him. But, Lord ! to see how 
kind my Lady Carteret is to her ! Sends her most rich 
jewels, and provides bedding and things of all sorts most 
richly for her, which makes my Lady and me out of our 


102 


SAMTJEL PEPYS. 


wits almost to see the kindness she treats us all with, as 
if they would buy the young lady. 

15th. Mr. Carteret and I to the ferry-place at Green- 
wich, and there staid an hour crossing the water to and 
again to get our coach and horses over; and by and 
by set out, and so toward Dagenhams. But, Lord ! what 
a silly discourse we bad as to love matters, he being the 
most awkward man ever I met with in my life as to that 
business. Thither we come, and by that time it began to 
be dark, and were kindly received by Lady Wright and 
my Lord Crewe. And to discourse they went, my Lord 
discoursing with him, asking of him questions of travel, 
which he answered well enough in a few words; but 
nothing to the lady from him at all. To supper, and after 
supper to talk again, he yet taking no notice of the lady. 
My Lord would have had me have consented to leaving 
the young people together to-night, to begin their amours, 
his staying being but to be little. But I advised against 
it, lest the lady might be too much surprised. So they 
led him up to his chamber, where I staid a little, to know 
how he liked the lady, which he told me he did mightily; 
but, Lord ! in the dullest insipid manner that ever lover 
did. So I bid him good night, and down to prayers with 
my Lord Crewe’s family; and, after prayers, my Lord, 
and Lady Wright, and I, to consult what to do; and it 
was agreed, at last, to have them go to church together, 
as the family used to do, though his lameness was a great 
objection against it. But, at last, my Lady Jem. sent me 
word by my Lady Wright, that it would be better to do 
just as they used to do before his coming; and therefore 
she desired to go to church, which was yielded to them. 

16th. (Lord’s Day.) I up, having lain with Mr. Moore 
in the chaplain’s chamber. And, having trimmed myself, 
down to Mr. Carteret; and we walked in the gallery an 
hour or two, it being a most noble and pretty house that 
ever, for the bigness, I saw Here I taught him what to 
do : to take the lady always by the hand to lead her, and 
telling him that I would find opportunity to leave them 
together, he should make these and these compliments, 
and also take a time to do the like to Lord Crewe and 
Lady Wright. After I had instructed him, which he 
thanked me for, owning that he needed my teaching him, 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


103 

my Lord Crewe come down and family, the young lady 
among the rest; and so by coaches to church four miles 
off; where a pretty good sermon, and a declaration of 
penitence of a man that had undergone the church’s cen- 
sure for his wicked life. Thence back again by coach, 
Mr. Carteret having not had the confidence to take his 
lady once by the hand, coming or going, which I told him 
of when he come home, and he will hereafter do it. So 
to dinner. My Lord excellent discourse. Then to walk 
in the gallery, and to sit down. By and by my Lady 
Wright and I go out, and then my Lord Crewe, he not 
by design, and lastly my Lady Crewe come out, and left 
the young people together. And a little pretty daughter 
of my Lady Wright’s most innocently come out after- 
wards, and shut the door to, as if she had done it, poor 
child, by inspiration; which made us without have good 
sport to laugh at. They together an hour, and by and by 
church-time, whither he led her into the coach and into 
the church, where several handsome ladies. But it was 
most extraordinary hot that ever I knew it. So home 
again, and to walk in the gardens, where we left the young 
couple a second time; and my Lady Wright and I to walk 
together, who tells me that some new clothes must of 
necessity be made for Lady Jemimah, which and other 
things I took care of. Anon to supper, and excellent dis- 
course and dispute between my Lord Crewe and the 
chaplain, who is a good scholar, but a nonconformist. 
Here this evening I spoke with Mrs. Carter, my old ac- 
quaintance, that hath lived with my Lady these twelve or 
thirteen years, the sum of all whose discourse and others 
for her is, that I would get her a good husband; which I 
have promised, but know not when I shall perform. Af- 
ter Mr. Carteret was carried to his chamber, we to prayers, 
and then to bed. 

11th. Up all of us, and to billiards; my Lady Wright, 
Mr. Carteret, myself, and everybody. By and by, the 
young couple left together. Anon to dinner; and after 
dinner Mr. Carteret took my advice about giving to the 
servants £10 among them, which he did, by leaving it to 
the chief man-servant, Mr. Medows, to do for him. Be- 
fore we went, I took my Lady Jem. apart, and would 
know how she liked this gentleman, and whether she was 


104 


SAMUEL PEPYa 


under any difficulty concerning him. She blushed, and 
hid her face awhile; but at last I forced her to tell me. 
She answered, that she could readily obey what her father 
and mother had done; which was all she could say, or I 
expect. But Lord ! to see among other things, how all 
these great people here are afraid of London, being 
doubtful of anything that comes from thence, or that 
hath lately been there, that I was forced to say that I 
lived wholly at Woolwich. So anon took leave, and for 
London. In our way, Mr. Carteret did give me mighty 
thanks for my care and pains for him, and is mightily 
pleased, though the truth is, my Lady Jem. hath carried 
herself with mighty discretion and gravity, not being 
forward at all in any degree, but mighty serious in her 
answers to him, as by what he says and I observed, I col- 
lect. To Deptford, where mighty welcome, and brought 
the good news of all being pleased. Mighty mirth of my 
giving them an account of all; but the young man could 
not be got to say one word before me or my Lady Sand- 
wich of his adventures; but, by what he afterwards re- 
lated to his father and mother and sisters, he gives an 
account that pleases them mightily. Here Sir G-. Car- 
teret would have me lie all night, which I did most nobly, 
better than ever I did in my life; Sir G. Carteret being 
mighty kind to me, leading me to my chamber; and all 
their care now is, to have the business ended; and they 
have reason, because the sickness puts all out of order, 
and they cannot safely stay where they are.” 


The day of the marriage — the 31st of July, soon 
comes round. The doughty Diarist is in his glory, 
“being,” he says, “in my new colored silk vest and coat 
trimmed with gold buttons, and gold broad lace round 
my hands, very rich and fine.” But we must give Pepys’s 
own complete narrative of the proceedings on this 
happy occasion. 

“Up, and very betimes by six o’clock, at Deptford, 
and there find Sir G-. Carteret, and my Lady ready to 
go : I being in my new-colored silk suit, and coat 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


105 


trimmed with gold buttons, and gold broad lace round 
my hands, very rich and fine. By water to the Ferry, 
where, when we come, no coach there ; and tide of ebb 
so far spent as the horse-boat could not get off on the 
other side of the river to bring away the coach. So we 
were fain to stay there in the unlucky Isle of Doggs, in a 
chilly place, the morning cool, and wind fiesh, above two 
if not three hours, to our great discontent. Yet, being 
upon a pleasant errand, and seeing that it could not be 
helped, we did bear it very patiently ; and it was worth 
my observing to see how, upon these two scores, Sir G. 
Carteret, the most passionate man in the world, and 
that was in greatest haste to be gone, did bear with it, 
and very pleasant all the while, at least, not troubled so 
much as to fret and storm at it. Anon the coach comes : 
in the mean time, there coming a News thither with his 
horse to go over, and told us he did come from Isling- 
ton this morning ; and that Proctor, the vintner, of the 
Miter, in Wood Street, and his son, are dead this morn- 
ing there, of the plague : he having laid out abundance of 
money there, and was the greatest vintner for some time 
in London for great entertainments. We, fearing the 
canonical hour would be past before we got thither, did, 
with a great deal of unwillingness, send away the license 
and wedding-ring. So that when we come, though we 
drove hard with six horses, yet we found them gone from 
home ; and, going towards the church, met them coming 
from church, which troubled us. But, however, that 
trouble was soon over ; hearing it was well done : they 
being both in their old clothes ; my Lord Crewe giving 
her, there being three coachfuls of them. The young lady, 
mighty sad, which troubled me; but yet I think it was only 
her gravity in a little greater degree than usual. All 
saluted her, but I did not, till my Lady Sandwich did ask 
me whether I saluted her or no. So to dinner, and very 
merry we were; but in such a sober way as never almost 
anything was in so great families : but it was much better. 
After dinner, company divided, some to cards, others to 
talk. My Lady Sandwich and I up to settle accounts, 
and pay her some money. And mighty kin d she is to me. 
and would fain have had me gone down for company 
with her to Hinchingbroke; but for my life I cannot. At 
5 * 


106 


SAMUEL PEPYS. 


night to supper, and so to talk; and which, methought, 
was the most extraordinary thing, all of us to prayers as 
usual, and the young bride and bridegroom, too : and so, 
after prayers, soberly to bed; only I got into the bride- 
groom’s chamber while he undressed himself, and there 
was very merry, till he was called to the bride’s chamber, 
and into bed they went. I kissed the bride in bed, and 
so the curtains drawn with the greatest gravity that could 
be, and so good night. But the modesty and gravity of 
this business was so decent, that it was to me indeed ten 
times more delightful than if it had been twenty times 
more merry and jovial. Whereas, I feared we must have 
sat up all night, we did here all get good beds, and I lay 
in the same I did before, with Mr. Brisband, who is a 
good scholar and sober man ; and we lay in bed, getting 
him to give me an account of Rome, which is the most 
delightful talk a man can have of any traveller: and so to 
sleep. Thus, I ended this month with the greatest joy 
that ever I did any in my life, because I have spent the 
greatest part of it with abundance of joy, and honor, and 
pleasant journeys, and brave entertainments, and without 
cost of money; and at last live to see the business ended 
with great content on all sides.” 


SAMUEL PEPYS TO MRS. STEWARD. 

September, 20 , 1695 . 

Madam : 

You are very good, and pray continue so, by 
as many kind messages as you can, and notices of your 
health, such as the bearer brings you back my thanks for, 
and a thousand services. Here’s a sad town, and God 
knows when it will be a better, our losses at sea making 
a very melancholy exchange at both ends of it ; the gen- 
tlewomen of this, to say nothing of the other, sitting 
with their arms across, without a yard of muslin in their 
shops to sell, while the ladies, they tell me, walk pen- 
sively by, without a shilling, I mean a good one, in their 
pockets to buy. One thing there is, indeed, that comes 


SAMUEL PEPYS. 


107 


in my way as a Governor, to hear of, which carries a little 
mirth with it, and indeed is very odd. Two wealthy 
citizens are lately dead, and left their estates, one to a 
Blue Coat boy, and the other to a Blue Coat girl, in 
Christ’s Hospital. The extraordinariness of which has 
led some of the magistrates to carry it on to a match, 
which is ended in a public wedding; he, in his habit of 
blue satin, led by two of the girls, and she in blue, with 
an apron green, and petticoat yellow, all of sarsnet, led 
by two of the boys of the house, through Cheapside to 
Guildhall Chapel, where they were married by the Dean 
of St. Paul’s, she given by my Lord Mayor. The 
wedding-dinner, it seems, was kept in the Hospital 
Hall, but the great day will be to-morrow, St. Matthews; 
when, so much I am sure of, my Lord Mayor will be 
there, and myself also have had a ticket of invitation 
thither, and, if I can, will be there too; but, for other 
particulars, I must refer you to my next, and so, 

Dear madam, adieu, S. P. 

Bow bells are just now ringing, ding dong, but whether 
for this, I cannot presently tell; but it is likely enough; 
for I have known them to ring upon much foolisher occa- 
sions, and lately too. 


MARIANNA D’ALCAFORADA, 


Nor aught it mote the noble maid avail, 

Nor slake the fury of her cruel flame, 

But that she still did waste, and still did wail, 

That through long languor, and heart-burning brame, 

She shortly like a pined ghost became. 

Edmund Spenser. 

In the year 1663 there was serving in Portugal, in the 
army of the stout old Marechal de Schomberg, a young 
French officer named Noel Bouton de Chamilly, a mem- 
ber of a noble Burgundian family. He was twenty-seven 
years old, and held the rank of captain in the French 
army. During the campaign he was taken ill and was 
sent to the Convent de l’Alentejo. Here he met Mari- 
anna L’Alcaforada, a lovely dark-eyed daughter of Portu- 
gal, of about twenty summers, who was there ministering 
to the sick and wounded . For the stalwart young French- 
man the beautiful Marianna evinced an admiration which 
soon ripened to love, albeit he possessed neither the ac- 
complishments of a Grammont, nor the graces of a 
Hamilton. In the “ Memoires de St. Simon,” Chamilly is 
described as “ a stout, fat man : to see and hear him, we 
should never imagine how he could have excited so exalt- 
ed a passion as that which is the soul of the famous let- 
ters of Marianna, and he was so dull and heavy that no 
one could suppose he possessed any talents for the art of 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 


109 


war.” He nevertheless did afterwards prove himself to 
be a soldier, and a ripe and good one, particularly dis- 
tinguishing himself at the seige of Graave, which cost 
the Prince of Orange sixteen thousand men. Chamilly 
was made a Marechal de France in 1703, and was knighted 
in 1705. To return to Marianna and her lover. He was 
soon convalescent, and the campaign over, returned to 
France. His departure increased the violence of her 
passion; her grief became uncontrollable: she retired to 
a convent, and at length found some relief in writing to 
Chamilly, who it is supposed was not animated with any 
real love for her. Her charming and passionate letters 
are the literary pride of her nation, and are not less beau- 
tiful than those of Abelard’s love, with which they have 
often been compared. Both Heloise and Marianna, from 
the peaceful solitude of a religious house, wrote with that 
exquisite and indescribable charm, that strain of passion 
and of love, which vibrates through every heart, and to 
which their sex, with solitude and devotion, gave addi- 
tional effect; deriving their sentiments from the inex- 
haustible sources of tenderness and sensibility, while all 
ideas of self were completely absorbed in the fend con- 
templation of the object beloved. The fate of the un- 
happy Marianna has never been known : those who can 
feel for sensibility, and the tender devotion of love, will 
hope that time wore from her heart the image of her un- 
worthy lover, and that in the solitude of the convent she 
regained her tranquillity; but, alas ! this is scarcely to be 
hoped; it is more probable that the unhappy passion, in 
which her very existence seemed to be involved, soon 
broke a heart, too tender and impassioned to survive the 
apathy of despair. Chamilly was heartless enough to 
exhibit her letters in the salons of Paris, and also perpe- 
trated the still greater infamy of causing the letters to 
be translated and published. They first appeared in 1669. 


110 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


Other editions were issued from time to time, containing 
additional letters purporting to have been written by the 
Heloise of her nation, together with epistles said to have 
been sent by Captain Chamilly to Marianna, but they are 
considered to be supercheries. The twelve letters given 
in our collection are all that are known to be genuine. 
They have been rendered into verse by a poet, who says : 
“ These letters will excite not the agony of grief which 
oppresses the heart, but rather the delicious tears which 
relieve it; they breathe the most tender, the most impas- 
sioned, the most generous love; they paint the passion 
in all its gradations, and all its interesting details : you 
behold its storms, its agitations, its momentary resolu- 
tions, its fond relapses, the delicacy of its fears, and the 
heroism of its sacrifices. Kacine himself, the painter of 
nature, has not represented love in colors more lovely, or 
more seductive, or under a form more impressive, or more 
beautiful These letters display, with the greatest ac- 
curacy and truth, the heart of a woman deeply impressed 
with love; her soul now intoxicated with bliss, now over- 
whelmed with sorrow; they describe all her emotions 
with the naivete of genuine feeling, and the glowing 
warmth of passion. Those of the tender sex who have 
loved, will find in them what they have thought and felt 
a thousand times when they have been writing to their 
lovers; and lovers, at least those who have been fortunate 
enough to inspire a delicate passion, will think, in read- 
ing them, that they are reperusing the letters of their 
fair ones.” Chamilly married, on his return from Por- 
tugal, a French lady anything but attractive in person, 
but whose wit, brilliant conversation, and elegant man- 
ners, contributed in no small degree to his advancement. 
The old Marechal died at Paris in 1715, at the age of 
seventy-nine. His memory, notwithstanding his record 
as an illustrious soldier, will ever be execrated by all 


MARIANNA D’ALCAPORADA. 


Ill 


honorable men (for there is something so base in betray- 
ing a woman that he professed to have loved, that the 
greatest scoundrel might shrink from being suspected of 
committing such an act,) although the world by his in- 
famous conduct gained that upon which, next to the 
“ Lusiad ” of Camoens, Portugal’s literary renown chiefly 
depends. 


I. 

MARIANNA TO CHAMILLY. 

It is possible, then, that you can for an instant have 
been angry with me, and that I, with a passion the most 
delicate that ever was felt, can have given you cause for 
a moment’s vexation ! Alas ! what remorse must be mine 
had I been wanting in the fidelity that is due to you, 
since, while I can only be accused of an excess of tender- 
ness, I yet condemn myself as the cause of your anger. 
But wherefore should it occasion this remorse ? Have I 
not had reason to complain ? And should I not alarm 
your affection, could I without murmuring endure your 
reserve? Oh my God! I am continually reproaching 
my own soul that it does not sufficiently discover to you 
the ardor of its emotions, and still you wish to conceal 
from me every secret of yours. 

When my looks have too much softness they obey but 
the tenderness of my heart, and are unfaithful to its 
ardor. If they are too animated, my tenderness is 
equally dissatisfied. The most expressive actions seem 
to me inadequate to speak my fondness, yet you can be 
reserved with me, even about trifles. How does this con- 
duct pain me! and how would you pity me could you 
know to what thoughts it has given rise ! But why am I 
thus curious ? Why do I wish to search into the recesses 
of your soul where I should find but indifference, and 
perhaps infidelity. It is kindness that renders you so 
reserved, and I am under an obligation to you for your 


112 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


mysterious conduct. You wish to spare me the misery of 
knowing all your indifference, and you dissemble your 
sentiments only from pity to my weakness. 

Alas ! why did you not appear thus to me in the begin- 
ning of our acquaintance ! My heart might then, per- 
haps, have regulated itself by yours. But it was not till 
you found that I loved with so much ardor that you 
resolved to love with so little. Moderation, however, is 
not the characteristic of your nature. You are impetuous. 
I experienced it no longer ago than -yesterday. But, 
alas ! your impetuosity owes its birth to rage alone, and 
you feel only when you suppose that an insult is offered. 
Ungrateful man ! what has love done that it shares so 
small a portion of your heart ? Why is not your warmth 
of soul manifested to answer mine ? and why is not this 
precipitancy employed to hasten the moments of our 
bliss ? Who that saw your readiness to quit my apart- 
ment when anger drove you thence, would believe you so 
slow to return when invited by love ? But I deserve this 
treatment for venturing to command y6u. Is it for a 
heart so entirely your own to pretend to give you laws ? 
You were in the right to punish it, and I ought to die 
with shame for having believed myself the mistress of my 
conduct. Too well you know how to punish this rebel- 
lion ! Do you remember with what apparent tranquillity 
you yesterday evening offered to aid my design of seeing 
you no more ? Did your heart really sanction this offer, 
or rather did you think me capable of accepting it ? For, 
such is the delicacy of my love, that it would be more 
grievous to me to be suspected of a crime than to see it 
committed by you. 

I am more jealous of what is due to my affection than 
to yours, and I could more easily pardon you for being 
unfaithful, than for suspecting me of infidelity. Yes, it 
is with myself I wish to be satisfied rather than with you. 
My tenderness is so exalted, and my esteem for you makes 
me so glory in it; that allowing you to doubt it appears 
to me the greatest of crimes. But how could you doubt 
it? Everything proves it to you; and in your heart, as 
in mine, there is not a single emotion that does not tell 
you that you are loved to adoration. Love has so well 
taught me that, even to the moderation of my caresses, 


MAKIANNA d’aLCAFOKADA- 


113 


there is nothing that does not convince you of the excess 
of my passion. Have you never observed this effect of 
my compliance with your wishes V How many times 
have I restrained the transport of my joy on your arrival 
because your eyes seemed to say that you wished me to 
act with more circumspection. You have done me a great 
injustice if you did not observe my constraint on those 
occasions: for such sacrifices are the most painful that I 
ever made you; but I do not reproach you with them. 
Wherefore should I care to be perfectly happy, if what is 
wanting to my felicity serves to increase yours ? Did you 
show more warmth I should have the pleasure of believing 
myself more beloved, but you would not have that of be- 
lieving yourself so much. You would think that my fond- 
ness was owing to your attachment; but now I have the 
glory of thinking that you owe it to my inclination only. 
Yet abuse not this affectionate generosity, nor presume 
upon it so far as to withhold the little show of love that 
still remains; rather be generous in your turn. Come to 
me and protest that the disinterestedness of my tender- 
ness increases your own, that when I believe all put to 
the hazard, I in reality hazard nothing, and that you 
are as tender and as faithful as I am tenderly and faith- 
fully yours. 


n. 

It is certainly no violation of truth to say that the lady 
whom we saw yesterday evening is very ugly; she dances 
vulgarly, and the Count de Cugne was much mistaken 
when he described her as a fine woman. How could you 
remain so long beside her ? From the expression of her 
countenance, it appeared to me what she said was by no 
means witty. Yet you conversed with her the greatest 
part of the evening, and had cruelty enough to tell me 
that you were not displeased with the conversation. 
What then did she say to you that was so charming? 
Did she tell you news of some French lady who is dear 
to you, or did she herself begin to grow dear ; for lov6 
alone could make so long a conversation bearable ? 


114 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


I did not find your newly-arrived Frenchmen so agree- 
able; I was annoyed by them the whole evening; they 
said the wittiest things they could imagine to me, and I 
plainly saw that they studied to do so, but they afforded 
me no amusement, and I believe it was their conversation 
that gave me the dreadful headache which I have had all 
night. You would know nothing of this were I not. to 
tell you. Your servants are no doubt occupied in in- 
quiring how that happy Frenchwoman bears her evening’s 
fatigue, for you really made her dance enough to occasion 
illness. But what is there so charming in her ? Do you 
think her more affectionate or more faithful than any 
other ? Did you find in her a disposition more favorable 
to you than that which I have shown? No! assuredly 
that cannot be! You well know that only once seeing 
you pass by, the repose of my life was lost, and that, 
without any consideration either of my sex or birth, I 
was the first to seek opportunities of seeing you again. 
If she has done more than this, she waits your getting 
up this morning, and little Durino will doubtless find her 
seated by your pillow. I wish for your felicity it may be 
so. So dear to me is your happiness, that till my last 
hour I would readily consent to increase it at the expense 
of my own ; and if you wish to regale the charmer with 
the perusal of this letter, do it without hesitation. What 
I write to you may not be useless to the advancement of 
your wishes. I rank high in the kingdom; I have always 
been flattered as possessing some share of beauty; and I 
believed it till your contempt undeceived me. Propose 
me then as an example to your new conquest. Tell her 
that I love you even to madness ; I am willing to ac- 
knowledge it, and would rather bring ruin upon me by 
the avowal, than deny a passion so dear to me. Yes, I 
love you a thousand times better than myself. At the 
moment I am writing to you I am jealous, I own it; your 
conduct yesterday has filled my heart with rage, and 
since I must tell you everything, I believe you are un- 
faithful. Yet in spite of all this I love you more than 
woman ever loved. I hate the Marchioness de Furtado 
for having afforded you the opportunity of seeing this 
new comer. I wish the Marchioness de Castro had never 
been born, since it was at her nuptials you were to inflict 


MARIANNA D’ALCAFORADA. 


115 


upon me the pain which I feel. I hate the inventor of 
dancing ; I hate myself ; and I hate the Frenchwoman a 
thousand times more than all the rest ; but among so 
many feelings of hatred, not one has the audacity to 
glance at you. You are always amiable in my eyes. In 
whatever character I behold you, even at the feet of this 
cruel rival who comes to disturb all my felicity, I find a 
thousand charms which have never existed but in you. 
I was even so foolish that I could not but feel delight 
that others saw those charms in you which I did, and 
though I am persuaded that to your merit I may perhaps 
owe the loss of your heart, I would sooner see myself 
condemned to the depth of despair, than wish you one 
encomium less than you now receive. 

How is it that in your favor love can reconcile feelings 
so opposite? Your merit makes me so jealous of all who 
approach you, that nobody can be more so; yet would I 
go to the end of the world to procure you new admirers. 
I hate this Frenchwoman with so bitter a hatred, that 
there is nothing, however cruel, of which I believe myself 
incapable, to destroy her — yet would I wish her the 
felicity of being beloved by you, did I think her love 
would render you more happy than you are. I feel my- 
self so blest when you are satisfied, that were it necessary 
to sacrifice all the pleasure of my life to secure one in- 
stant of yours, I would do it without hesitation. Why 
are you not thus to me ? Ah ! did you love as I love, 
what happiness would be ours. Your felicity would con- 
stitute mine, and your own would by this be made more 
perfect. No earthly being has a heart filled with love like 
mine; none other than myself can so perfectly estimate 
your worth; and you make me pity you indeed if you are 
capable of attaching yourself to any other, after being 
accustomed to such love as mine. Believe me, my friend, 
it is only with me that you can be happy. I know other 
women by myself, and I feel that of all on earth love has 
destined me alone to be yours. What would become of 
all your delicacy, if it no longer found my heart to 
answer it ? Those looks so eloquent and full of mean- 
ing, could other eyes reply to them like mine ? No, it is 
.. impossible ! We alone know how to love, and both had 
died of discontent had our two souls been bound to any 
but each other. 


116 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


EX 

How long is your absence to continue ? Will you yet 
pass another day without returning to Lisbon ? Do you 
not recollect that you have already been away two days ? 
For my part, I think you must desire to find me dead at 
your return, and that your design in quitting the court 
was not so much to accompany the king in his visit to 
the fleet, as to free yourself from a mistress that wearies 
you: in fact I do so to the extreme; I must acknowledge 
it. I am satisfied neither with you nor with myself. An 
absence of twenty-four hours brings me to death’s door. 
What might be excess of felicity to another is not always 
so to me. Sometimes I fancy your happiness not suf- 
ficiently great: at other times you seem to enjoy so much, 
I fear you cannot owe it all to me, and I am displeased 
with everything, even with the transports of my love, 
when I think you do not pay to them enough of atten- 
tion. Your absence of mind. terrifies me; I wish to see 
you quite composed when T know all that is passing 
within you ; but when you pay no attention to my ex- 
travagances you drive me to despair. I am not rational; 
I own it: but who can be so with excess of love like 
mine. I well know that, at the moment I am writing, I 
ought to be at ease. You are but a step from town, your 
duty detains you, and the illness of my brother would 
have prevented my seeing you during the time you have 
been absent. Above all, there are no women where you 
are, and that removes one great disquiet from my heart. 
But, alas ! how many yet remain, and how true it is that 
a fond woman, if she love as I do, finds in everything a 
torment for herself. All this parade of war may wean 
you from the peaceful delights of love. Even now, per- 
haps, you look upon the moment of our separation as a 
misfortune that must arrive, and you are reasoning to 
fortify your heart with resolution. Ah ! if the sight of 
our cannon thus affect you, all the beauties of Europe 
would be less fatal to me. 

Yet I wish not to oppose your duty. Your glory is 
dearer to me than myself, and well I know you were not 
bom to pass all your days with me; but I would that the 


Marianna d’alcaforada. 


11 ? 


necessity of absence gave you as much horror as it gives 
to me; that you could not think of it but with trembling; 
and that inevitable as our separation must appear, you 
could not believe yourself able to sustain it. 

Accuse me not, however, of being gratified by your 
despair;' you will shed no tear that I shall not desire to 
wipe away. I will be the first to entreat you to bear 
courageously what, through excess of grief, will bring me 
to the grave. Nothing should console me for having 
been born, did I think my absence left you without con- 
solation. What is it, then, I wish ? I know not. I wish 
to love you all my life, even to adoration. I wish, if pos- 
sible, that you might so love me. But to wish all this, 
is, at the same time, to wish myself the most infatuated 
of women. 

Be not disgusted with my weakness ; I had never felt 
it but for you; and I would not exchange it for the most 
solid wisdom, if to be wise it were requisite to love you 
one degree the less. Your understanding is enchanting; 
you have said the same of mine; but I would forego see- 
ing it in either of us, did it oppose the progress of our 
folly. Love must reign over every faculty of our souls. 
We must be entirely at his disposal; and if love be satis- 
fied, I care not that reason is displeased. 

Have you been of this way of thinking since I last saw 
you ? I tremble with apprehension that you have not 
entirely possessed your senses. But would it be possible 
for you to possess them, when speaking of a war that 
will remove you far from me — no ! you are incapable of 
such treachery. You cannot have looked upon a soldier 
who has not drawn from you a sigh; and when you return 
I shall have the pleasure of hearing it said that you are 
at times not in your right mind, and that such has been 
your situation during your journey: for my part I am 
sure no person will speak to you of me without accusing 
me of the same defect. I utter extravagances that as- 
tonish all who are about me; and if the illness of my 
brother did not account for my wanderings, it would be 
thought amongst my servants that I am become insane: 
little is wanting to make me so indeed. You may judge 
of the incoherency of my mind by that of my letter; but 
this assuredly cannot be displeasing to you. The ravages 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


113 

also which your absence has committed upon my faCS, 
ought to be more agreeable to you than the bloom of the 
finest complexion; and I should think myself hateful, if 
being deprived of the sight of you for three days had 
not disfigured me. 

What then shall I be if I lose you for six months? 
Alas ! no change in my person will be perceived, fo r I 
shall die in parting from you. But I hear some noise in 
the street, and my heart tells me that it arises from your 
return. Ah, my God ! I am quite overcome ! If it be 
you who are coming, and I cannot see you on your arri- 
val, I shall die with anxiety and impatience; and if you 
come not after the hopes I have just conceived, vexation, 
and the transition of emotion in my soul, will deprive me 
of my senses. 


IV. 

Will you, then, be always cold and listless ! Can 
nothing have power to interrupt your repose ! What 
must be done to disturb it ? Must I, in your presence, 
throw myself into the arms of a rival ? For, except this 
last act of inconstancy, which my love will never allow 
me to commit, I have given you reason to apprehend 
every other. 

I accepted the arm of the Duke d’ Almeida on the pro- 
menade; I contrived to sit near him at supper, and even 
whispered in his ear some trifles, which you might have 
taken for subjects of importance; yet I could cause no 
change in your countenance. Ingrate ! Have you really 
the inhumanity to feel so little love for her who so well 
loves you ? Have not my cares, my favors, and my truth, 
been worth one moment of your jealousy ? Does he, who 
is more dear to me than peace or fame, so little value 
me, that he regards my loss without dismay ! Alas ! I 
tremble at the bare idea of losing you! You cast not a 
look upon another woman that does not cause me a dread- 
ful shuddering; you offer not a civility upon the most 
trifling occasion that does not cost me twenty-four hours 


MARIANNA D’ALCAFORADA. 


119 


of despair ! Yet can yon see me converse under your 
eyes a whole evening with another, without betraying the 
least disquietude ! Ah ! you have never loved me ; for 
too well I know what it is to love, to think that senti- 
ments so different from mine should bear the name of 
love. 

What would I not do to punish you for this coldness ? 
There are some moments when I am so transported 
with vexation, that I could wish to love another. But 
how ? Amidst all this displeasure I see nothing amiable 
in the world but yourself. Even yesterday, when your 
coldness seemed to rob you of a thousand charms, I could 
not help admiring all you did. In your disdain, there 
was I know not what of greatness that expressed the 
character of your soul, and it was of you I was speaking 
while whispering to the duke, so little am I mistress of 
occasions to offend you ! I was dying with the desire of 
seeing you do something that might afford me a pretext 
of openly affronting you; but how should I have been 
able to do so ? My very anger is but excess of love, and 
at the moment I am most incensed at your being so 
phlegmatic, I plainly feel I should find reasons to excuse 
it, did I not love you to distraction. In fact, my brother 
was observing us; the least attempt on your part to ad- 
dress me would have been my ruin. But could you not 
have felt jealousy without making it conspicuous? I 
understand the glances of your eyes; I could easily have 
read in your looks what others could not perceive as I 
did; but alas ! I saw in them no appearance of what I 
wished to see. I own that love was there; but was it 
love that should have shown itself at such a time ? Bage 
and displeasure should have darted forth; you ought to 
have contradicted everything I said; have thought me 
ugly; have flattered another woman before my eyes; in 
short, you ought to have been jealous, since you had every 
apparent cause to be so. 

But instead of these natural evidences of real love, you 
bestowed on me a thousand praises. You took the same 
hand that I had given to the duke, as if it had given you 
no cause of displeasure, and I expected that you were 
going to congratulate me on the attachment of the most 
respectable man of our court. Insensible being! is it 


120 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


thus that love is shown ? Is it thus you are beloved by 
me ? Ah ! had I thought you so cold before I loved you 
as I do ! What then ? Though I had perceived all that 
I now perceive, and more, if possible, I could not have 
resisted the impulse of loving you. It is a bias of soul 
over which I had no power, and which .... but when I 
think of the moments of delight this passion has afforded 
me, I cannot repent of having conceived it. 

What should I not do, then, if I were satisfied with 
you, since I am so transported with love at the time I 
have most cause to complain ! But you know the differ- 
ence; you have seen me satisfied, you have seen me dis- 
pleased; I have uttered complaints to you, yet in anger 
or in joy, you have always seen me the most affectionate 
of women. 

Will so noble a disposition inspire you with no emula- 
tion ? Love, my dear Insensible ! love as ardently as you 
are loved. The soul finds no true pleasure but in love. 
The excess of bliss springs from excess of passion; and 
indifference is a greater foe to those who cherish it, than 
to those whom it withstands. Ah ! had you once really 
known the genuine transport of affection, how would you 
envy those who feel it. Even for the possession of your 
heart I would not be the owner of your cold tranquillity. 
I prize my raptures as the greatest blessings that were 
ever mine, and I would rather be condemned to see you 
no more, than to see you without feeling those emotions 
which your presence inspires. 


V. 

Is it to put my docility to the test that you write to 
me in the manner which you do ? Or is it really possible 
that you can think all that you have said to me ? Believe 
me capable of loving another! — grant me patience! — 
though my delicacy is deeply wounded by this opinion, 
yet I, who love you more than mortal ever was loved, have 
frequently entertained it of you. But to believe this in- 
fidelity consummated, to heap invectives upon me, and to 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 


121 


labor to persuade me tbat I shall never see you more, 
that is what I cannot endure. I have been jealous, for 
no perfect love is free from jealousy: but I have never 
been brutal. Your idea has always been present to me, 
and even amidst my greatest anger I have still recol- 
lected that it was you who were the object of my sus- 
picions. 

Alas ! how many faults do I perceive in your passion ; 
how little are you capable of loving; and how easy it is 
to discover that you have no love in your heart, since all 
that drops unpremeditatedly from you is so unworthy th6 
name of love. Alas ! that heart which I have purchased 
with the whole of my own ! that heart which I have mer- 
ited by so many transports, so much fidelity, and which 
you assured me was mine, is capable of offending me thus. 
Its first impulse is to pour forth injurious language; and 
when you allow it to act for itself, it expresses nothing 
but outrage. Go, ungrateful as you are ! I will leave 
you your suspicions to punish you for having conceived 
them; the belief that I am tender and faithful ought to 
be sufficiently dear to you to make a doubt of my being 
so a torment. It would be easy for me to cure you of 
your suspicion, nor is the power of keeping your resent- 
ment alive consistent with my own repose But I 

would have you abjure an error which only avenges me. 
If you think I resent the injury you have done me, then 
still believe the rest of your suspicions — I am the most 
faithless of women. 

I have, nevertheless, not seen the man who causes your 
jealousy; the letter which is pretended to be mine is not 
so, and there is no proof to which I could not submit 
without fear, if I chose to give you that satisfaction. But 
why should I give it you ? Is it by invectives that it is 
to be obtained ? Would you not have cause to think me 
as despicable as you represent me, if you owed my justi- 
fication to your menaces ? You will, you say, never see 
me more; you leave Lisbon for fear of being unfortunate 
enough to meet me; and you would poignard the dearest 
of your friends if he committed against you the treason 
of bringing you into my presence. Cruel man ! what 
has the sight of me done to you, that it should be so in- 
supportable ? It has never been to you the harbinger of 


m 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


aught but pleasures; you have never read in my eyes 
anything but love, and their ardent desire to express it; 
and is this a cause to oblige you to quit Lisbon, that you 
may never see me more ? If this be the only reason for 
going, do not go. I will spare you the trouble of avoid- 
ing me ; and besides it is rather I who ought to fly than 
you. The sight of me has cost you only the indulgence 
of suffering yourself to love, while the sight of you has 
cost me all the glory and all the happiness of my life ! 

I confess that it has also been to me a source of bliss. 
Oh ! when I picture to myself the secret emotions which 
I felt whenever I thought I saw you amidst the throng ! 
— the soft languor which stole away my senses whenever 
I met your eyes ! — the inexpressible transports of my soul 
whenever we had the opportunity of a moment’s conver- 
sation ! I know not how I was able to exist before I saw 
you, nor how I shall exist when I see you no more ! But 
what I have felt you ought to have felt; you were beloved, 
and you told me that you loved; yet you are the first to 
propose seeing me no more ! Ah ! you shall be satisfied 
— never while I live will I see you again. 

It would, however, give me extreme pleasure to re- 
proach you personally with your ingratitude, and my re- 
venge would, methinks, be more complete, if my eyes 
and all my actions confirmed to you my innocence. That 
innocence is so perfect ! the falsehood which has been 
told you is so easy to refute, that you could not talk with 
me, even for a quarter of an hour, without being con- 
vinced of your injustice, and without dying of regret 
that you had committed it. This idea has already twice 
or thrice prompted me to fly to your habitation, and I do 
not know whether it will lead me thither, in spite of my- 
self, before the day is at an end; for my anger is violent 
enough to deprive me of my reason. But no, I have so 
long been in the delightful habit of studying your dis- 
position and wishes, that I am led to fear I should dis- 
please you by so bold a measure. I have always seen 
you act with unequalled discretion; you have been more 
careful than myself of my reputation ; nay, you have even 
carried your precautions sometimes so far as to compel 
me to complain of them. What then would you say, if I 
were to do anything which could betray our amours, and 


Marianna d’alcaforaDA. 


128 


affect my honor amongst persons of character? Yon 
would despise me, and I should die if I thought you ca- 
pable of it; for whatever happens I wish always to pos- 
sess your esteem. 

Complain ! abuse me ! betray me ! hate me ! since you 
can do it; but never despise me. From the moment that 
your love no longer constitutes your felicity I may live 
without it, but I cannot live without your esteem, and I 
believe this is the reason why I am so impatient to see 
you: for it is not possible that my impatience can arise 
from tenderness: I should be mad indeed to love a man 
who treats me as I am treated by you. 

Nevertheless, if your anger be considered under a 
proper point of view, it appears to be caused solely by an 
excess of passion. You would not be so transported with 
anger if your love were less vehement. Ah ! why cannot 
I persuade myself of this truth ? How dear to me, then, 
would be the outrages which you have committed against 
me ! But no, I will not flatter myself with this pleasing 
delusion. You are guilty. Even should you not be so, I 
will believe it, that I may punish you for having suffered 
me to think so. I shall not go to-day to any place where 
you can see me : I shall pass the afternoon with the Mar- 
chioness de Castro, who is indisposed, and whom you do 
not visit. To conclude, I am resolved to be angry, and 
this is perhaps the last letter that you will ever receive 
from me. 


YL 

Is it indeed I who am now writing to you ? Are you 
the same being that you formerly were ? By what mira- 
cle does it happen that you have testified your love to me 
without its inspiring my joy ? I have seen you manifest 
an ardor and impatient anxiety; I have read in your eyes 
the same desires to which you have always hitherto found 
my feelings in such perfect accordance. They were no 
less ardent than when they constituted my sole felicity. 
I am as tender, as faithful, as I ever was; and yet I find 


124 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


myself cold and careless. It seems as if you had only 
cheated my senses by an illusion which wanted the power 
to reach my heart. 

Ah ! how dear do those reproaches cost me which you 
draw down upon yourself ! Of how many transports am 
I not robbed by a single day of your negligence. I know 
not what secret demon incessantly whispers to me that 
it is to my anger I owe all your tender assiduities, and 
that there is more policy than sincerity in the sentiments 
which you have avowed. It must, in truth, be confessed, 
that delicacy is a gift of love which is not always so pre- 
cious as we would persuade ourselves. I acknowledge 
that it gives a zest to our pleasures, but then what keen- 
ness it adds to our sorrows. I still imagine that I see 
you in that absence of mind which has caused me so 
many sighs. Do not, my love, deceive yourself on this 
point: your ardors are the source of all my felicity; but 
they would be the source of all my indignation if I 
thought I owed them to anything save the natural im- 
pulse of your heart. I fear studied actions much more 
than coldness of temperament. Shall I tell you the whole 
of my fancies on this subject ? It was the excess of your 
transports yesterday which gave birth to my suspicions. 
You seemed out of yourself; and through all that you 
appeared to be I sought your real self. O heavens ! what 
would have become of me had I found you guilty of dis- 
simulation? I prefer your love to my fortune, to my 
glory, to my life; but I could more easily support the 
certainty of your hatred than the deceitful semblance of 
your love. It is not to the exterior that I look, but to the 
feelings of the soul. Be cold, be negligent, be even fickle, 
if you can be so, but never dissimulate. Deception is the 
greatest crime that can be committed against love; and 
I would much sooner pardon you for infidelity than for 
using art to conceal it from my knowledge. You said a 
number of fine things to me yesterday afternoon, and I 
wish you could have seen yourself at that moment as I 
saw you. You would have found yourself quite a differ- 
ent being from what you generally are. Your mien was 
yet more noble than it naturally is, your passion sparkled 
in your eyes, and rendered them more piercing and more 
tender. I saw that your heart was on your lips. Oh I 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 


125 


how happy am I, if it did not show itself there under false 
colors ! In truth, I put you too much to the test, and it 
is not in my power to try you less than I do. The pleas- 
ure of loving with my whole soul is a bliss for which I 
am indebted to you, nor is it now possible for you to 
ravish it from me. I know full well that in spite of my- 
self I shall always adore you, and I am equally certain 
that I shall still adore you, even in spite of yourself. 
These are dangerous assurances; yet why should they 
be ? Yours is not a heart that must be retained by fear; 
I should never feel assured of the safety of my conquest 
if I preserved it by that tie alone. Politeness and grati- 
tude count for much in friendship, but they go for noth- 
ing in love. We must obey the heart without consulting 
the reason. By the sight of a beloved object the soul is 
rapt away, however strong our reason may be — at least 
such I feel is my case with regard to you. It is neither 
the habit of seeing you, nor the fear of giving you pain 
by my absence, that compels me to seek your presence 

it is in irresistible eagerness which springs from 

the heart, without artifice, and without reflection. I fre- 
quently seek you even in places where I am sure that I 
shall not find you. If it be thus with you, the instinct 
of our hearts will doubtless make them everywhere meet 
each other. I am compelled to pass the greater part of 
the day in a place where, alas ! you cannot be. But let 
us abandon ourselves to the passion which fills our hearts, 
let us allow our desires to guide us, and you will find that 
we shall not fail to pass agreeably even those hours which 
we cannot pass together. 


vn. 

Let us not keep our vows, my friend, I conjure you ! 
It costs us too much to keep them. Let us see each other, 
and, if possible, let it be immediately. You have sus- 
pected me of infidelity; you have declared your suspicions 
in a manner the most insulting; yet I love you more 
dearly than myself, and cannot live without seeing you. 


126 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


Wherefore impose on ourselves a voluntary absence — 
have we not enough to experience that is inevitable? 
Come, then, restore perfect joy to my soul by a moment 
of unrestrained conversation. 

You tell me you wish to come only to entreat my par- 
don ! Ah ! come, though it be to reproach me ; come, I 
conjure you. I would rather see your eyes darting anger 
than not see them at all; but I hazard nothing in leaving 
you the choice. I know I shall see them affectionate, 
and glowing with love; for so they have already appeared 
this morning at church. I read in them the shame of 
your credulity, and in mine you must have seen the as- 
surance of your pardon. Let us speak no more of this 
quarrel; or if we do speak of it, let it be to guard our- 
selves from such another. How could either of us doubt 
that our love was reciprocal ? It is but for love that we 
exist. Such a heart as I have would never have been 
given me, had it not been destined to be filled with your 
image; you would not have the soul you possess, had you 
not been formed to love; and it was only that you might 
be loved to the degree you merit, and that you might 
love as much as you are beloved, that heaven made us 
susceptible of the flame. But tell me, I pray you, have 
you felt what I have felt since we pretended to be at 
strife ? For never have we been so in reality: we are in- 
capable of being so, and our destinies prevail over every 
cause of displeasure. Great God ! how painful have I 
found this dissimulation ! How have my eyes done 
violence to themselves in disguising their expression; 
and what foes must we be to ourselves to check confidence 
for a moment where there is love such as ours. 

My feet involuntarily led me where I was likely to meet 
you. My heart, so sweetly accustomed to overflow at 
your approach, sprung to my eyes to express its delight, 
and, as I forced myself to refuse it their aid, it smote me 
with such pangs as can be conceived only by those who 
have felt them. 

I think, too, that one soul has animated us. I have 
met you in places where chance alone could not have 
brought you; and if I must confess all my little vanities, 
I have never seen so much love in your looks as since 
you have endeavored to conceal it. How silly it is to 


MARIANNA d’aLCAPORADA. 


127 


torment ourselves thus ! Why do we not unveil our 
whole souls to each other ? I knew all the tenderness of 
yours, and I could have distinguished all the emotions of 
its love from those of any other: but I knew not your 
anger nor your pride. I knew you were capable of 
jealousy since you could love ; but I knew not what 
character that passion would assume in your heart. It 
would have been treachery to leave me longer in doubt 
of it; and I cannot but feel grateful to your injustice, 
since it has led me to so important a discovery. I did 
wish you to be jealous, I have found you so; but now re- 
nounce your jealousy as I renounce my curiosity. What- 
ever look a lover wears, there is none that so becomes 
him as the happy lover’s air. It is a great error to say 
that the lover is a dull and uninteresting being when he 
is blest. He who is not pleasing in such a character 
would be less so in any other. Where there is not refine- 
ment enough to wear it with advantage, it is the heart 
that must be blamed and not the happiness. 

Come, quickly, my love, come quickly, and confirm this 
truth. I should be unwilling, indeed, to lose time upon 
so long a letter, did I not know that you cannot see me 
at the hour I am writing to you. Whatever pleasure I 
find in thus conversing with you, how infinitely more de- 
lightful would be a mutual conversation ! This is solitary 
joy which I only taste, but in our interviews you partake 
the pleasure. 

Yet, I cannot have the one but when decorum will per- 
mit; while the other depends on myself alone. At this 
moment, when every person in our house is at rest, and 
perhaps feels happy in being able to repose, I enjoy a hap- 
piness that the sweetest sleep could not yield me. I 
write to you; my heart speaks to you as if you could 
reply to it; it consecrates to you its waking hours and its 
impatience. Ah ! how happy are we when we truly love ! 
How I pity those who languish in the inactivity to which 
freedom gives birth. Good morning to you, my friend, 
the day begins to dawn. It had dawned much sooner 
than usual had it consulted my impatience ; but it is not 
in love as we are. I must pardon, then, its slowness, and 
endeavor to beguile it by a few hours’ slumber, that it 
may be the less insupportable, 


128 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


vnx 

Think, my love, to what an extreme you have been 
wanting in foresight! Ah! unfortunate that you are, 
you have been misled, and you have misled me by illusive 
hopes. The passion upon which you raised so many pro- 
jects of delight, presents you nothing now but sad de- 
spair — despair only to be equalled by the cruelty of the 
separation that occasions it. Must then this separation, 
to which my grief, ingenious as it is, can give no name 
sufficiently expressive of its horror, must it forever take 
from me the sight of those dear eyes in which I was used 
to see so much love! — those eyes that were to me as 
everything, and gave me full content ! 

Alas! mine are deprived of the only beams that ani- 
mated them ! they have nothing left but tears, and I have 
only used them in incessant weeping since I heard you 
were resolved upon a separation; it will be insupportable 
to me, and must speedily bring me to the grave. 

Nevertheless, I seem to have a love for the misery 
which you alone have brought upon me. My life was at 
your disposal from the first moment I beheld you, and I 
feel some pleasure in sacrificing it to you. 

A thousand times a day I send my sighs to you, they 
seek you everywhere ; yet all they bring me back in 
recompense for so many disquietudes is the too sure fore- 
boding of my hapless fortune, which cruelly will not per- 
mit me to indulge a hope, but at every moment whispers, 
cease, unhappy Marianna ! — cease to consume thyself in 
vain, nor longer seek a lover whom thou wilt never see 
again. He has passed the seas but to avoid thee ; he is 
in France encircled with pleasures; he thinks not for a 
moment on thy grief; he absolves thee from thy tender- 
ness, and thanks thee not for it. But no, I cannot bring 
myself to think of you so injuriously; I am but too much 
interested in justifying you. I will not believe that you 
have forgotten me. 

Am I not sufficiently wretched, without tormenting 
myself with unjust suspicions? And wherefore should I 
endeavor to banish the remembrance of all the attentions 
which you lavished to convince me of your love ? Those 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 


129 


sweet attentions so charmed me, that I should be indeed 
ungrateful, did I not love you with all the warmth my 
passion inspired, while I enjoyed the proofs of yours. 
How is it that the recollection of moments so delightful 
should become thus painful? Why must they, in con- 
tradiction to their nature, serve only to oppress my heart ? 
Alas! your last letter reduced it to a strange condition; 
its agitation was so strong, that it seemed endeavoring 
to separate itself from me, and go in quest of you. I * 
was so overcome with these violent emotions, that I re- 
mained more than three hours bereft of all sense — I 
wished not to return to a life which I must lose for you, 
since I am not to preserve it for your sake: however, in 
spite of myself, I again beheld the light. I did flatter 
myself with the idea that I was dying for love ; and be- 
sides, I rejoiced to be no more exposed to feel my heart 
torn with anguish for your absence. 

Since this attack I have been several times ill : but can 
I be ever free from sufferings while deprived of seeing 
you ? I bear them, nevertheless, without a murmur, 
since they proceed from you. Is this, then, my recom- 
pense for loving you so tenderly ? But it matters not; I 
am resolved to adore you all my life, and never to look 
upon another. You will do well, too, I assure you, to 
love no other person. Could you be satisfied with a pas- 
sion less ardent than mine? You will, perhaps, meet 
with more beauty, (though you have told me I was suf- 
ficiently beautiful,) but you will never meet with so much 
love — and all the rest is nothing. 

Do not fill up your letter with affairs of no importance, 
nor tell me again to remember you. I cannot forget 
you, neither do I forget that you have given me hope 
that you would come to pass some time with me — alas ! 
why not your whole life ? Were it possible for me to 
quit this miserable cloister, I would not wait in Portugal 
for the fulfilment of your promise. Regardless of ap- 
pearances, I would fly to seek you, love yuu, and follow 
you through the world. I dare not flatter myself that 
this can ever be ; I will not cherish a hope that would 
assuredly yield me some pleasure ; henceforth I will be 
sensible to grief alone. 

I own, however, that the opportunity my brother has 
6 * 


130 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


afforded me of writing to you, lias excited some sensation 
of joy in me, and for a moment suspended my despair. 
I conjure you to tell me wherefore you sought, as you 
did, to captivate my soul, since you well knew you were 
to leave me ! And wherefore have you been so eager to 
make me unhappy ? Why did you not leave me in the 
repose of my cloister? Had I done you any wrong? 
Yet pardon me, I impute nothing to you; I have no right 
to think of blame; I accuse only the severity of my fate: 
in separating us, it has inflicted all the evil that it could. 
It cannot separate our hearts ; love, stronger than fate, 
has united them forever; if my heart is still dear to you, 
write to me often. I surely merit that you should take 
some little pains to let me know the state of your heart 
and of your fortune. Above all, come to see me. Adieu ! 
I know not how to quit this paper; it will fall into your 
hands. Would the same happiness were mine ! Alas, 
senseless that I am! I well know that is not possible. 
Adieu — I can proceed no further. Adieu; love me always, 
and be the cause of my enduring still severer sorrow. 


IX. 

It is doing the greatest injustice in the world to the 
sentiments of my heart, to endeavor to make them known 
to you by what I write. How happy should I be could 
you truly judge of them by the warmth of your own ! 
but this I must not expect from you, and I cannot refrain 
from saying, much less bitterly indeed than I feel it, that 
you ought not to wrong me, as you do, by a forgetfulness 
which drives me to despair, and which is even disgrace- 
ful to yourself. 

It is. but just, at least, that you should suffer me to 
complain of the evils I anticipated, when I saw you were 
resolved to quit me. I am now quite convinced I was 
mistaken in supposing that, because the excess of my 
love made me appear above suspicion, and merited more 
fidelity than is usually to be met with, you would act 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 131 

more nobly than is the general practice upon such occa- 
sions. 

The inclination you have to betray me prevails, in 
truth, over the justice that you owe me for all I have done. 

I should certainly be very unhappy if you were to love 
me only because I love you, and I should lament not 
owing everything to your inclination alone; but even this 
is not the case — I have not received a letter from you 
these six months. 

I attribute all these sufferings to the blindness with 
which I indulged my affection for you. Ought I not to 
have foreseen that my pleasures would terminate much 
sooner than my love ? Could I hope that you would re- 
main all your fife in Portugal, and renounce your fortune 
and your country to think only of me ? My sorrows ad- 
mit of no relief, and the remembrance of my joys over- 
whelms me witfi despair. 

Alas! and all my wishes then are unavailing! . . . . 
and I shall never again behold you in this room with all 
that ardor and rapturous emotion which you were accus- 
tomed to display. But alas! I mistake; I know but too 
well now that the transports which took entire possession 
of my head and heart were excited in you only by the 
transient feeling of pleasure, and that with that feeling 
they expired. 

In those too happy moments I ought to have called 
reason to my aid to moderate the fatal excess of my de- 
lights, and warn mo of all I suffer now: but I gave my- 
self up entirely to you, and I was in no state to think of 
what would have empoisoned my bliss, and prevented me 
from fully enjoying the ardent expressions of your pas- 
sion. I was too happy in the consciousness of your 
presence, to reflect that you would be one day separated 
from me. 

I recollect, however, having sometimes said you would 
render me unhappy ; but those alarms were soon dissi- 
pated. I even found pleasure in sacrificing them to you, 
and in abandoning myself entirely to the enchantment 
and deceit of your protestations. I well know the 
remedy for all my sufferings, and I should soon be re- 
lieved from them could I cease to love you: but alas! 
what a remedy is this ! No, I would endure yet more, 


132 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


rather than forget you. Alas ! is it in my power to for- 
get you ? I cannot reproach myself with having for one 
moment wished to divest myself of love for you : you 
are more to be pitied than I am, and it is better to suffer 
as I do, than enjoy the insipid pleasures that you find 
among your beauties of France. 

I envy not your indifference. You excite my compas- 
sion. I defy you to forget me entirely. I flatter myself 
with having such power over your soul, that without me 
all your joys must be imperfect; and I am more fortunate 
than you, because I am more occupied. 

I have been lately appointed to receive the visitors in 
the parlor of the convent. All who speak to me think I 
am insane; I know not what I reply to them: and cer- 
tainly the nuns must be as insane as myself, to think me 
capable of any charge. Ah ! I envy the happiness of 
Emmanuel and Francisco:* why am not I continually 
with you as they are ? I was willing to follow you, and 
surely I should have served you with more zeal. 

I wish for nothing in the world but to see you 

at least remember me. I content myself now with your 
remembrance, but I dare not assure myself of it. I did 
not confine my hopes to being remembered by you when 
I saw you every day: but you have made me feel that I 
must submit to all that you decree. Nevertheless I do 
not repent of having adored you; I rejoice that you sub- 
dued my soul. Your cruel, and perhaps eternal absence, 
diminishes in no degree the warmth of my affection. I 
make no secret of it; I would have it known to all the 
world; I have sacrificed decorum to you — I delight, I tri- 
umph in the sacrifice. As I have once loved you, my 
honor and religion shall henceforth consist in loving you 
through life. 

I do not tell you all these things to induce you to write 
to me. Ah no ! do not constrain yourself: I would have 
nothing from you that does not flow directly from your 
heart, and I refuse all testimonies of love which you have 
power to withhold. I shall have pleasure in excusing 
you, because perhaps you will have pleasure in not taking 
the trouble to write ; for I feel entirely disposed to par- 
don all your faults. 


* Captain ChamiUy’s pages. 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 


laa 


A French officer this morning had the charity to speak 
of you to me for more than three hours. He told me 
peace was made with Frances If that be the case, could 
you not come here and take me back with you ? But I 
am not worthy of that; do what you please; my love no 
longer depends on your conduct to me. 

Since your departure I have not enjoyed a single mo- 
ment’s health, and I have had no kind of pleasure but in 
repeating your name a thousand times a day. Some of 
the nuns who know the deplorable state into which you 
have plunged me, speak of you very frequently. I go as 
seldom as possible out of the room where you have been 
so many times, and I look incessantly at your portrait, 
which is a thousand times dearer to me than life. It af- 
fords me some pleasure; but it likewise causes me a great 
deal of anguish when I think that I shall, perhaps, never 
see you again. Yet wherefore should it be possible that 
I shall never see you again ? Have you forever aban- 
doned me ? Alas ! I despair. Your poor Marianna can 
support herself no longer she sinks as she con- 
cludes this letter. Adieu, adieu have pity on me. 


X. 

What will become of me, and what would you have me 
do ? I find my situation widely different from what I had 
conceived it would be. I did expect that you would 
write to me from every place you passed through, and 
that your letters would be very long; that you would sus- 
tain my passion by the hope of seeing you again; that an 
entire confidence in your fidelity would afford me some 
degree of repose, and that, in the meantime, I should re- 
main in a state not quite intolerable; free from extreme 
anguish. I had even conceived some feeble projects of 
using every effort of which I should be capable to effect 
my cure, could I be once thoroughly assured that you 
had quite forgotten me. Your absence, some feelings of 
devotion, the fear of utterly ruining all that remains of 


134 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


health by such incessant watchings and anxieties, the 
little probability of your return, the coldness of your 
love and of your last farewell, your departure, grounded 
upon very insufficient pretexts, and a thousand other 
reasons, which are but too good and yet too unavailing, 
all seemed to promise me, should it become necessary, an 
effectual aid: in short, having nothing to contend with 
but myself, I could never suspect all my weakness, nor 
apprehend all that I now suffer. 

Alas ! how much am I to be pitied that you do not 
share my grief, but that I alone am wretched. The 
thought is death to me. I die, too, with the fear that 
you were never really sensible of our pleasures. Yes, I 
see now the treachery of your whole conduct. You de- 
ceived me every time you said you were delighted to be 
alone with me. To my importunate fondness only I have 
owed your transports and your seeming warmth. You 
deliberately laid a plan to ensnare me; you considered 
my passion as a triumph for yourself, but never did it 
deeply touch your heart. Are you not sadly pitiable, 
and must you not possess indeed very little delicacy, if 
this be all the satisfaction you have found in my affection ? 
How is it possible that with so much love I have not been 
able to render you completely blest ? I regret, for your 
sake alone, the innumerable pleasures you have lost; 
must I feel too that you have not been willing to enjoy 
them ? Ah ! had you but known them, you would surely 
find that they are of infinitely greater value than the poor 
triumph of deceiving me; you would feel that there is a 
far greater happiness, a sweeter thrill, in passionately 
loving than in being loved. I know not what I am, nor 
what I wish for. I am racked by a thousand opposite 
tortures. Can so deplorable a condition be conceived? 
I love you to distraction, yet have such consideration for 
you that I would not dare, perhaps, to wish that you 
were agitated by the same feelings. I should kill myself, 
or I should die of grief, did I believe that you have never 
any rest, that your whole life is nothing but vexation and 
distress, that you weep incessantly, and that everything 
is hateful to you. My own sufferings are more than I 
can bear; how then should I support the anguish of 
yours, which would wound me a thousand times more 
deeply ? 


MARIANNA D ALCAFORADA. 


185 


But yet I cannot bring myself to wish that you should 
never think of me, and, to speak seriously to you, I am 
madly jealous of everything that gives you pleasure, 
that gratifies your heart, or even your taste, while in 
France. 

I know not why I write to you. I foresee that you will 
merely pity me, and it is not your pity that I want. I 
am irritated with myself when I reflect on all thafc I have 
sacrificed to you. I have lost my reputation, I have ex- 
posed myself to the fury of my relations, to the severity 
of our laws against offending nuns, and to your ingrati- 
tude, which, of all these misfortunes, appears to me the 
greatest. 

Nevertheless, I plainly feel that my remorse is not sin- 
cere; that, with my heart’s entire sanction, I would have 
run still greater dangers for you, and I find a horrible 
delight in having risked my life and honor. Ought not 
all I hold most dear to have been at your disposal ? And 
shall I not rejoice in having so devoted them ? I even 
think my sufferings and my love are not enough, though, 
alas ! I have little reason to be satisfied with you. Faith- 
less that I am, I live and endeavor to preserve existence 
rather than to lose it. Ah ! I almost die with shame; my 
despair exists then in my letters only ! Had I loved as 
much as I a thousand times declared I did, should I not, 
long since, have died ? I have deceived you, and you 
have reason to complain of me. Alas ! why do you not 
complain ? I have seen your departure, I cannot hope 
ever to see you return, and yet I still exist. I have been 

insincere to you, I implore your pardon: but do 

not grant it to me Treat me severely. 

Think not that my feelings are sufficiently ardent. Be 
yet more difficult to be satisfied. Tell me you wish that 
I may die for love of you. Assist me thus, I pray you, to 
surmount the weakness of my sex, and put an end to all 
my irresolutions by complete despair. 

The fatal termination of my woes would surely force 
you to think often of me; my memory would be dear to 
you, and you would, perhaps, be sensibly affected by my 
dying some extraordinary death. Would not this be bet- 
ter than the condition to which you have reduced me ? 
Adieu ! Would I had never seen you ! Ah ! how acutely 


186 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


do I feel the fallacy of that suggestion ! Well do I know, 
at the moment I am writing to you, that I would sooner 
far be miserable in loving you, than wish to have never 
seen you. 

I yield without a murmur then to my sad fate, since 
you have not been willing to render it more happy. 
Adieu; promise that if I die of grief you will tenderly 
regret me, and that the violence of my passion shall at 
least give you a disrelish and aversion for everything on 
earth. This will console me; and if I must give you up 
forever, I shall be glad not to leave you to any other. 

Would it not be very cruel in you to avail yourself of 
my despair, that you might interest the more, and show 
how warm a passion you had excited: once more adieu. 
My letters are too long; I pay too little regard to your 
feelings; but I entreat your pardon, and dare hope you 
will show some indulgence to a poor, insane being, who, 
as you know, was not so until she loved you. Adieu; I 
fear I say too much to you of my misery; yet I thank you 
from my heart for the desperation you have caused me, 
and loathe the tranquillity in which I lived before I knew 
you. Adieu, my love increases every moment. Ahl how 
many things I have yet to tell you. 


XI. 

Your lieutenant has just informed me that a tempest 
has obliged you to put back to a port of Algarve. I fear 
you must have suffered a great deal at sea, and that ap- 
prehension has so haunted me that I have not bestowed 
a thought upon my own sufferings. Do you really think 
that your lieutenant takes more concern in what befalls 
you than I do ? If not, why is he better informed upon 
the subject than I am ? In short, why did you not write 
to me? 

I am unfortunate indeed if you have not been able to 
find an opportunity since your departure, and still more 
so, if you have found one, and not been willing to write. 


MARIANNA d’aLCAFORADA. 


157 


Yoiir injustice and your ingratitude are extreme : yet 1 
should be driven to despair if they were to bring down 
upon you any misfortune, and I would much rather that 
they remained unpunished than see them avenged. 

I refuse to yield credit to all those signs which might 
convince me that you no longer love ; and I feel much 
more disposed blindly to abandon myself to my passion, 
than to dwell upon the cause which you give me to com- 
plain of your want of attention. 

How much disquietude would you not have spared me, 
had you, when I first knew you, shown as little tender- 
ness as it appears to me that you have for some time past 
displayed. But who would not, like me, have been de- 
luded by so much ardor ; and who would not have be- 
lieved it sincere ? How long and difficult is the task of 
learning to suspect the sincerity of those we love ! 

I see plainly that the least excuse is sufficient for you; 
and, even without your taking the pains to make any to 
me, my love serves you so faithfully that I can only con- 
sent to think you culpable that I may enjoy the delightful 
pleasure of justifying you myself. 

You won me entirely over by your assiduities, you in- 
flamed me by your transports, you charmed me by the 
sweetness of your manners, you dispelled all my fears by 
your oaths. My violent inclination seduced me; and the 
consequences of a passion which, at its commencement, 
was so pleasant, so blest, are only tears, sighs, and a 
miserable death ; nor have I any remedy whatever in my 
power. 

It is true that in loving you I have enjoyed transcendent 
pleasures, but I pay for them the price of unexampled 
anguish; every feeling that you excite within me runs to 
extremes. Had I inflexibly resisted your love ; had I 
given you occasions of uneasiness or jealousy, merely to 
inflame you the more; had you discovered any artificial 
pruderies in my deportment; had I, in short, exerted my 
reason in opposition to the predilection I felt for you, 
then (although my efforts must doubtless have proved 
futile) you would have had a right to punish me severely, 
and to avail yourself of your power; but I thought you 
worthy to be loved before you talked of loving me. 
You declared an ardent passion for me; I was enraptured 


138 


LOVE IN LETTEKS. 


by your avowal, and I yielded myself up to love you even 
to infatuation. 

You were not blind as I was; why then have you per- 
mitted me to bring myself to this condition? What 
could you look for in my affections, which must only 
have been wearisome to you ? You well knew you were 
not always to be in Portugal, and wherefore did you 
single me out to render me so wretched? You might 
certainly have found some more beautiful woman in this 
country, with whom you might have enjoyed as much 
pleasure, as it was only of gross pleasure you were in 
pursuit, who might have loved you tenderly as long as 
you were in her sight, whom time might have consoled 
for your absence, and whom you might have quitted 
without perfidy or cruelty. The conduct you have pur- 
sued displays the tyrant fond of persecuting, rather than 
the lover who should study only to give delight. 

Alas ! wherefore do you exercise so much severity upon 
the heart that is entirely yours ? I plainly see that you 
are as much inclined to be prejudiced against me, as I 
have been to be prepossessed in your favor. 

Without the aid of all my love, and without feeling 
that I had done anything extraordinary, I could have 
withstood reasons much more powerful than those that 
have prevailed on you to leave me. I should have thought 
them very weak; and there are none whatever that should 
have torn me from you; but you gladly availed yourself 
of any pretext that presented itself to you for returning 
to France .... A ship was on the point of sailing .... 
why did you not let it sail ? Your family had written to 
you. Are you ignorant of all the persecutions which I 
have suffered from mine ? Your honor called on you to 
abandon me. Have I taken any thought of my own ? 
You were obliged to go and serve your sovereign. If all 
that is said of him be true, he has little need of your as- 
sistance, and would have excused you for not giving it. 

I should have been too happy could we have passed 
our lives together. Since, however, a cruel absence must 
separate us, I must rejoice that I have not been faithless; 
not for all the world contains would I have been guilty 
of so black an action. You knew every thought of my 
heart, all the tenderness which I felt, yet you could re- 


MARIANNA d’ALCAFORADA 


139 

solve to leave me forever, and expose me to all the ter- 
rors which I must feel that you will never more think of 
me — except to sacrifice me to a new passion ! 

I am quite conscious that I love you like a woman who 
has lost her senses ; yet I do not complain of all the 
violence of my heart. I accustom myself to its persecu- 
tions, and I even could not live without that pleasure, 
which I find and enjoy in loving you amidst a thousand 
sorrows. 

But I am incessantly and extremely tormented by the 
hate and disgust which I feel for everything. My family, 
my friends, and this convent, are all insupportable to me. 
All that I am obliged to see, and all that I am compelled 
to do, is odious in my sight. I am so jealous of my pas- 
sion, that it seems to me as if all my actions, all my 
duties, centered in you alone. Yes, I feel some scruples 
if I do not devote to you every moment of my life. 

What, alas ! should I do, were my heart not filled by 
so much hate and so much love ? How, to lead a tran- 
quil and languishing life, could I survive all the thoughts 
by which I am now unceasingly occupied? I could never 
bear this void, this insensibility of the soul. 

Every one perceives the entire change in my temper, 
my manners, and my person. My mother spoke to me 
•about it sharply, and afterwards with some degree of 
mildness. I know not what T said in reply to her. It 
seems to me as if I had confessed everything. The most 
rigid of the nuns take compassion upon the state to 
which I am reduced. It even inspires them with some 
regard and tenderness for me. Everybody is touched 
with my love, yet you remain in a profound indifference; 
you write me nothing but cold letters full of repetitions, 
half the paper is not filled, and they show plainly that 
while you write them, you are only anxious to get to the 
conclusion. 

Donna Brites teased me lately to make me leave my 
room, and thinking to divert me, she led me to take the 
air on the balcony which looks towards Mertola. I fol- 
lowed her, and was immediately struck with a cruel re- 
membrance, which made me weep for the remainder of 
the day. She led me back, and I threw myself on my 
bed, where I gave myself up to a thousand reflections on 


140 love m letters. 

the little probability there was that I should ever be freed 
from my woes. 

What is done to solace me sharpens my grief, and I 
find even in the remedies which are offered to me par- 
ticular reasons to increase my affliction. In that place I 
had frequently seen you pass by with an air that charmed 
me, and it was in that balcony that I stood on the fatal 
day when I began to feel the first effects of my unfortu- 
nate passion. I thought that you wished to please me, 
though you knew me not : I persuaded myself that you 
had particularly remarked me among all the others that 
were standing with me. I imagined that when you 
stopped you were glad I could see you better; and that 
you wished me to admire your address when you put 
your horse into a gallop. I shuddered when you rode 
him into a dangerous spot : in short, I took a secret in- 
terest in all your actions. I felt plainly that you were not 
indifferent to me, and all that you did I considered as 
done for me. 

You know but too well the consequences of this begin- 
ning; yet, though I have no longer any reason to act 
cautiously, I ought not to speak of them to you, lest I 
should render you more guilty, if possible, than you now 
are, and have to reproach myself with making so many 
useless efforts to oblige you to be faithful. Faithful you 
will not be. Can I hope from my letters and my reproaches 
that which my love and my entire devotion to you have 
failed to secure from your ingratitude ? 

I am too certain of my misfortune; your unjust con- 
duct leaves me not the least power to doubt of it, and, 
since you have abandoned me, I have everything to 
dread. 

Is it for me alone that you will have charms, and will 
you not appear pleasing in other eyes ? I believe that I 
should not be sorry if the sentiments of others justified 
in some degree my own ; and I could wish that all the 
women in France might consider you as amiable, but that 
none might love, and that none might please you. This 
idea is ridiculous, is impossible : nevertheless, I have 
sufficiently proved that you are not capable of a strong 
attachment; that you could easily forget me, without any 
assistance, and without being constrained to do so by a 


MARIANNA D’ALCAFORADA. 


141 


new passion. . . . Perhaps I even wish that you had 
some treasonable pretext — I should, it is true, not be less 
unhappy, but you would not be so culpable. 

I am convinced that though you find no great pleasure 
there, you continue in France of your own accord. The 
fatigue of a long voyage, some small remains of decency, 
and the fear of not making an adequate return to my 
transports, detain you. Ah! you have nothing to fear 
from me — I shall be contented to see you now and then, 
and to know only that we are near each other. But per- 
haps I am flattering myself; while you are more interested 
by the rigor and coldness of another than you ever were 
by my love. Is it possible that severity can attach to 
you? 

But before you yield up your heart to the dominion of 
a violent passion, consider well the excess of my sorrows, 
the inconsistency of my conduct, the varied agitation of my 
feelings, the extravagance of my letters, my sanguine 
hopes, my despair, my wishes, and my jealousy. Ah ! 
you will make yourself miserable: I conjure you to be 
warned by the state in which I am, and then if I have 
suffered for you, to you at least my sufferings will not be 
useless. 

Five or six months ago, you reposed in me an unwel- 
come confidence: you confessed candidly to me that you 
had loved a lady of your own country. If she detains 
you from me, tell me so without hesitation: — I shall no 
longer languish for your return. 

Some remains of hope support me still ; but if I am 
only to hope, I would rather lose that support at once, 
and with it lose myself. Send me her picture, and some 
of her letters. Tell me all she says to you. In that I 
may find something to console me, or to end my sorrows. 

In my present state I cannot long remain, and for me 
there can be no favorable change. I wish too for the 
picture of your brother and your lovely sister: all that 
relates to you is dear to me; to whatever you love I am 
entirely devoted. I am no longer of the same disposition 
that I have been. There are even moments when I fancy 
that I could submit to serve her you love; your ill-treat- 
ment and contempt have so humbled me that I dare not 
reflect, lest I should think that my own jealousy has been 


142 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


the cause of your neglect, and that I have deeply injured 
you by my reproaches. I often feel that I ought not to 
expose to you, with the frenzy that I do, those sentiments 
which you disapprove. 

The officer has waited long for this letter; I had re- 
solved to write in a style that should not displease you: 
but what an extravagant letter have I written — I must 
conclude. Alas! I cannot resolve to do it. While I 
write, I seem to converse with you, and you almost appear 

present to me The next shall not be so long nor 

so troublesome; under this assurance you may open and 
read it. It is true I ought not to speak to you of a 
passion which displeases you, and I will speak of it no 
more. 

It is now nearly a year since I gave myself up to you 
without reserve. Your passion appeared to me so ardent, 
so sincere, and I could never have thought that my fond- 
ness would have disgusted you so much as to induce you 
to take a journey of five hundred leagues, and expose 
yourself to all the dangers of the sea, to escape from it. 
No one ever experienced such treatment as I have done. 
You can remember my shame, my confusion, my disorder; 
but you do not remember that you bound yourself by 
oaths to love me forever. 

The officer who is to bring you this sends to me for 
the fourth time to tell me that he wishes to be gone. 
How very pressing he is ! He too abandons, no doubt, 
some unhappy one of this country. Adieu! I suffer more 
in concluding this letter than you did in leaving me, 
though perhaps forever. Adieu ! I dare not call you by 
those thousand endearing names I would; I dare not 
abandon myself to my feelings. I love you more, a 
thousand times more than I thought. How dear you are 
to me ! Oh, how cruel you are to me ! You never write 
to me — I cannot refrain from telling you that once more 
— I am beginning again, and the officer will be gone. No 
matter — let him go ! I write more for myself than you, 
I only seek to console myself. The length of my letter 
will alarm you — you will not read it. What have I done, 
that I should be thus miserable, and why have you em- 
bittered the remainder of my life ? Oh that I had been 
born in another country ! Adieu ! forgive me, I dare not 


MARIANNA D’ALCAFORADA. 143 

now ask you to love me. Behold to what my fate has 
reduced me ! Adieu. 


xn. 

I write to you for the last time; and I hope to convince 
you, by the difference of the style and manner of this 
letter, that you have at length persuaded me that you no 
longer love me, and that, therefore, I ought not to love 
you any longer. 

I shall accordingly send you, by the first conveyance, 
all that I yet possess of yours. Fear not that I shall 
write to you; I will not even write your name on the 
packet. I have charged Donna Brites with the whole of 
the arrangement, her in whom I have been accustomed to 
place confidence of a very different kind; her care will be 
less suspected than mine; she will take every necessary 
precaution, in order to assure me that you have received 
the portraits and the bracelets that you gave me. 

I, however, wish you to know that I have for some 
days felt strongly inclined to burn and destroy every relic 
that would remind me of you, those pledges of your love 
that were so dear to me; but I have already discovered 
so much weakness, that I am convinced 1 could never be 
capable of proceeding to these extremities. I am deter- 
mined, therefore, to endure all the anguish of parting 
with them, and give you at least a little chagrin. 

I will acknowledge, to my shame and yours, that I 
have found myself more attached to those trifles than I 
am willing to describe, and I felt that I stood in need of 
all the arguments reason could muster to enable me to 
part with any of them, even when I could no longer flat- 
ter myself with your attachment; but perseverance in 
any one design works wonders. I delivered them into 
the hands of Donna Brites. — How many tears this reso- 
lution cost me ! After a thousand emotions, and a thou- 
sand incertitudes which you are a stranger to, and of 
which I shall assuredly render you no account. ^ . . . I 
have conjured her never to mention them to me, nor re- 


144 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


store them to me, though I should only ask to look upon 
them once more, and to send them to you without my 
knowing anything of it. 

I never knew the excess of my love until I exerted 
every effort to cure myself of it. I believe I should never 
have undertaken such a task, could I have foreseen the 
difficulties and the obstacles to its success; for I am per- 
suaded that I should have felt less disagreeable sensations 
in loving you, ingrate as you are, than in abandoning 
you forever. I have proved that you were less dear to 
me than my passion, and I have had strange emotions to 
struggle with, after your injurious conduct had rendered 
your person odious to me. 

The natural pride of my sex has not assisted me in 
forming any resolutions against you. Alas ! I have suf- 
fered your contempt, I could have supported your hatred, 
and all the jealousy which your attachment to another 
could have given me : I should have had at least some 
passion to struggle with; but your indifference is insup- 
portable to me ; your impertinent protestations of friend- 
ship, and the ridiculous civilities of your last letter, have 
shown me that you have received all mine, and that they 
have been incapable of inspiring the least emotion in your 
heart, and yet you have read them ! Ingrate, I am yet 
weak enough to be distracted at the idea of not being 
able to flatter myself that you never received them. 

I heartily detest you. Did I ever ask you to tell me 
sincerely the truth ? Why could you not suffer me to 
enjoy my passion ? You had only to desist from writing 
to me; I should not have sought the fatal truth. Am I 
not indeed unfortunate, in that I could not oblige you to 
take some pains to deceive me, and to be no longer able 
to excuse you ? Know that I perceive you are unworthy 
of my sentiments, and that I have discovered all the dark 
shades of your character. 

Therefore (if all I have done for you may entitle me to 
ask and favor at your hands), I conjure you to write to 
me no more, and to assist me to forget you entirely. If 
you were to evince, in even the slightest manner, that the 
perusal of this letter pained you, I should perhaps believe 
you, and perhaps also your confession would inflame me 
with sentiments of anger, and with other sensations. 


MARIANNA D’ALCAFORADA 


145 


Do not, then, interfere with my conduct; you might 
overturn all my designs and resolutions, whatever part 
you take. I do not wish to know the success of this let- 
ter. Trouble not the state for which I am preparing my- 
self; you ought to be content with what you have already 
made me suffer. Whatever designs you might have 
formed for rendering me unhappy, deprive me not of my 
present state of incertitude. I hope I shall in time be- 
come a little more tranquil. I promise not to hate you; 
I feel too forcibly the violence of my sentiments to dare 
to undertake it. I am persuaded that I shall find in this 

country a more faithful lover But, alas ! who can 

inspire me with love? Can the passion of another 
occupy my soul ? Has mine had any influence over you ? 
and have I not felt that a wounded heart can never forget 
the cause of those transports which were unknown to it; 
that all its emotions are attached to the idol who gave 
birth to them ; that its first wound can neither be healed 
nor effaced; that all the passions which offer their assist- 
ance to fill it with other sensations, and soothe it into 
peace, promise in vain that delicious sensibility which it 
can no longer find; that all the pleasures it seeks, with- 
out being anxious to find them, only serve to prove that 
nothing is so dear as the remembrance of its woes. Why 
have you made me experience the imperfection and vexa- 
tion of an attachment which ought not to have lasted 
forever, and the miseries which attend a violent passion 
that is not returned? Alas! why does blind affection 
and cruel destiny determine us to attach ourselves to 
those who are insensible, rather than to those who would 
feel an equal passion ? When even I might hope for some 
solace in a new amour, and that I might find at length a 
faithful lover, I pity my own case so much, that I would 
not place the least deserving of m'ankind in the situation 
to which you have reduced me; and though I am under 
no obligation to show you any tenderness, I could not 
bring myself to exercise so cruel a vengeance even upon 
you, should it, from any unforeseen change, ever be in my 
power. I even now seek excuses for your conduct; for I 
feel too well that a nun cannot appear so interesting to 
you as another : yet, methinks, if the heart left reason a 
choice, your sex would rather be attached to them than 


146 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


to other women; they have nothing to prevent them from 
surrendering their whole souls to the delicious impression 
of love; the numerous objects which attract female atten- 
tion in the intercourse with the world has no power over 
them; they are secluded from all those scenes which 
please the fancy and vitiate the heart; they dwell only on 
the idea of their lover. I often fancy that it must be 
unpleasing to a lover to see her in whom his happiness is 
centred perpetually occupied with trifles. How can he 
suffer her, without being driven to despair, to be con- 
tinually talking of balls, assemblies, operas, walks, dresses, 
etc., perpetually exposed to fresh causes of jealousy? 
Then they are obliged to interchange the reciprocities of 
politeness, of complaisance, and conversation; and what 
lover can feel assured that they do not enjoy amusement, 
I will not say pleasure, on those occasions ? Oh ! they 
ought to relinquish a lover who is not credulous and un- 
suspecting as a child, and who cannot, without hesitation, 
credit all they tell him, and who cannot see them, without 
emotion, flirt with every one who addresses them. 

But I have no intention of proving to you, by a chain 
of reasoning, that you ought to love me — that would be 
a very poor method; and besides, I have employed much 
better ones which have failed. I know too well my 
destiny to endeavor to surmount it. I shall be unhappy 
to my latest hour; was I not so even when I saw you 
every day ? I used to be dying with alarm lest you should 
prove unfaithful: I wished to see you every moment, 
though I knew it was impossible ; I was terrified with the 
danger you ran in entering the convent; I was driven to 
despair when you were with the army; I was miserable 
in thinking that I was not more beautiful and more wor- 
thy of you; I was angry with fate for placing me in the 
middle ranks of life, and I often thought that the attach- 
ment you appeared to have for me might prove prejudi- 
cial to your fortune; I thought that I could not love you 
sufficiently; on your account I dreaded the anger of my 
friends, and I was indeed as miserable as I am now. 

If you had given me any proofs of your passion after 
you left Portugal, I would have exerted every effort to 
leave it too ; I would have disguised myself, and wan=- 
dered until I had found you ; but alas ! what would have 


MARIANNA d’ALCAFORADA 147 

become of me if you had deserted me in France. Laden 
■with disgrace, myself and my family covered with shame, 
who, since you no longer iove me, have become more 
dear to me than before. 

You perceive that I can coolly reflect that I might 
have been in a more miserable situation than I even am 
now that I can speak to you at least rationally for once 
in my life. Whether this moderation may please you, 
and make you better satisfied with me, I wish not to 
know. I have already entreated you to write to me no 
more, and I earnestly repeat the entreaty. 

Have you never reflected on your unworthy treatment 
of me ? Do you never think that you owe more to me 
than all the world besides ? I have loved you madly ; 
for your sake, how have I contemned everything else ! 
You have not acted like a man of honor. You must, 
from the first, have had a natural aversion for me, since 
my passion has failed to excite in you a love equally des- 
perate. I have suffered myself to grow enamored of 
very common attractions. What sacrifices have you 
made for me ? Have you not been constantly in search 
of a thousand amusements? Have you renounced the 
sports of the town or of the country ? Were you not 
the first to join the army, and are you not the last to 
return ? You wantonly exposed your person, although I 
conjured you for my sake to be careful of yourself. You 
have not endeavored to establish yourself in Portugal, 
where you are so beloved ; one letter from your brother 
drew you from me, you hesitated not a moment ; and do 
I not know that, during the whole voyage, your cheer- 
fulness never forsook you. 

It must be confessed that I have cause to hate you 
mortally. Ah ! I have myself been the cause of my own 
misfortunes ; my love was sincere as it was ardent ; had 
I been less sincere, you would have loved me more : to 
excite an ardent passion required greater address, and 
love alone is not sufficient to create love. You wished 
that I should love you : and when you had formed the 
design, you left no means untried to accomplish it : you 
would have even resolved to love me yourself had that 
been necessary, but you found that, without feeling any 
love yourself, you could succeed in your enterprise. 


148 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


What perfidy ! Do you think this treachery shall pass 
unpunished? Should any chance bring you again into 
this country, I tell you that I would deliver you up to 
the vengeance of my family. 

I have long abandoned myself to an idolatry, which 
now “fill r me with horror ; and my remorse haunts me 
incessantly. I am feelingly alive to the shame of the 
crimes which you have made me commit, and alas ! 
passion no longer blinds me to their enormity. When 
will my heart cease to be agonized ? When shall I be 
delivered from this miserable situation? Still I think 
that I wish you no evil, and that I could be pleased to 
see you happy. But if you have a heart, can you be so? 

I should like to write you another letter, to let you see 
that I shall in time, perhaps, regain my tranquillity. 
What pleasure will it.be to me when I can reproach you 
with your injurious conduct, and feel it no longer : when 
I can let you see that I despise you, that I can speak 
with cool indifference of your treachery, that I have 
forgotten my sorrows, that I remember you no more 
than I wish you to remember me. 

I allow that you have great advantage over me, you 
have inspired me with a passion which has deprived me 
of my reason ; but you have no reason to be vain on 
that account. I was young, I was credulous ; I had 
been immured from my infancy in a convent ; I had seen 
none but disagreeable persons ; I had never before heard 
the sound of flattery, which you incessantly applied. I 
thought those charms and that beauty which you had 
found in me, and which you made me perceive for the 
first time myself, were justly yours. I heard you well 
spoken of : all the world spoke in your favor, you prac- 
tised every deception to make me love you, but I am at 
length awakened from the enchantment ; you have 
assisted to break the charm, and I confess that your 
assistance was required. 

In returning your letters, I have attentively perused 
the last two which you wrote me, and I have read them 
much oftener than I have your first letters, to prevent a 
relapse into my former follies. Ah ! how much it cost 
me ; and how happy I should have been if you would 
have allowed me to love you always 1 I feel that I am 


MARIANNA D 4 ALCAFORAi)A 


149 


still too much engrossed by my injuries and your infi- 
delities ; but remember I have determined to regain a 
more tranquil state : this I will obtain, or release myself 
at once by some extremity, which you perhaps would 
learn without much sorrow. But I wish nothing more 
of you : I am an idiot to repeat the same thing so often ; 
I must resign you, and think no more of you ; I believe, 
too, I must write to you no more. Am I obliged to 
render you an account of all my feelings ? I fear I am. 
Adieu. 


LORD GREY AND LADY BERKELEY. 


The following letters which passed between Lord Grey 
and the unfortunate Lady Henrietta Berkeley, appeared 
in a work entitled “ The Amours of Philander and 
Sylvia,” supposed to have been edited by Mrs. Behn. 
Lady Henrietta was the fifth daughter of George, first 
Earl of Berkeley. Mary, her eldest sister, married the 
infamous Lord Grey, of Werke, by whom she was after- 
wards ruined. The Earl indited him and several other 
persons for the offence. The trial took place in Novem- 
ber, 1682, at Westminster Hall; and after a most affect- 
ing scene, the Lady Henrietta herself being present, and 
making oath that she had left home of her own accord, 
the jury were preparing to withdraw to consider their 
verdict, when a new tone was given to the proceedings by 
the lady declaring, in opposition to her father’s claim to 
her person, “ that she would not go wdth him ; that she 
was married, and under no restraint, and that her husband 
was then in court.” She was then claimed by a Mr. 
Turner as his wife. But the Earl still insisting upon the 
court giving his daughter into his custody, and she 
refusing to go with him, a scuffle ensued in the court, 
during which the judge ordered his tipstaff to take the 
lady into custody, and convey her to the King’s Bench, 
whither Mr. Turner accompanied her. On the last day 
of the term, she was released by order of the court. 


LORD GREY AND LADY BERKELEY. 


151 


Lady Henrietta is stated to have died unmarried in 1710; 
consequently the claim of Turner must have been a mere 
collusion to save Lord Grey. 


L 

SYLVIA TO PHILANDER. 

Not yet? — not yet? Oh ye dull and tedious hours, 
when will ye glide away, and bring that happy moment 
in which I shall at last hear from my Philander ? Eight- 
and -forty tedious ones are past, and I am here forgotten 
still — forlorn, impatient, restless everywhere ; not one 
of all your little moments, ye undiverting hours, can 
afford me repose. I drag ye on, a heavy load. I count 
ye all, and bless ye when you are gone ; but tremble at 
the approaching ones, and with a dread expect you; and 
nothing will divert me now : my couch is tiresome, and 
my glass is vain, my books are dull, and conversation 
insupportable; the grove affords me no relief, nor even 
those birds, to whom I have so often breathed Philander’s 
name, they sing it on their perching boughs; no, nor the 
reviewing of his dear letters, can bring me any ease. 
Oh! what fate is reserved for me? For thus I cannot 
live; nor surely thus I shall not die. Perhaps Philander 
is making a trial of virtue by this silence; pursue it, call 
up all your reason, my lovely brother, to your aid. Let 
us be wise and silent; let us try what that will do towards 
the cure of this too infectious flame. Let us, oh, let us, 
my brother, sit down here, and pursue the crime of loving 
on no further. Call me sister; swear I am so, and 
nothing but your sister : and forbear, oh forbear, my 
charming brother, to pursue me further with your soft 
bewitching passion ; let me alone, let me be ruined with 
honor, if I must be ruined; for oh ! it were much hap- 
pier I were no more, than that I should be more than 
Philander’s sister, or he than Sylvia’s brother. Oh let 
me even call you by that cold name till that of lover be 


152 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


forgotten. Hah! methinks, on the sudden, a fit of virtue 
informs my soul, and bids me ask you for what sin of 
mine, my charming brother, you still pursue a maid that 
cannot flee. Ungenerous and unkind ! Why did you 
take advantage of those freedoms I gave you as a 
brother? I smiled on you, and sometimes kissed you, 
too — all which I thought a sister might allow a brother; 
and knew not all the while the treachery of love. Oh 
none, but under that intimate title of a brother, could 
have the opportunity to have ruined me. I played away 
my heart at a game I could not understand, nor knew 
I when it was lost: by degrees so subtle, and an authority 
so lawful, you won me out of all. Nay then, too, even 
when all was lost, I would not think it love. I wondered 
what my sleepless nights and slumbering visions of my 
lovely brother meant. I wondered why my soul was con- 
tinually filled with wishes and new desires, and still con- 
cluded it was for my sister all, till I discovered the cheat 
by jealousy; for when my sister hung upon your neck, 
kissed and caressed that face I adored, oh how I found 
my color change, my limbs all trembled, and my blood 
enraged; and I could scarce forbear reproaching you, or 
crying out, “why this fondness, brother?” Sometimes 
you perceived my concern, at which you'd smile, for you, 
who had been before in love (a curse upon the fatal time,) 
could guess at my disorder ; then would you turn the 
wanton play on me. When sullen with my jealousy, and 
the cause, I fly your soft embrace, yet wish you would 
pursue and overtake me, which you ne’er failed to do, 
where, after a kind quarrel, all was pardoned, and all was 
well again. While the poor injured innocent, my sister, 
made herself sport at our delusive wars ; still I was 
ignorant till you, in a most fatal hour, informed me I was 
a lover. Thus was it with my heart in those blest days 
of innocence; thus was it won and lost ; nor can all my 
stars in heaven prevent, I doubt prevent my ruin. Now 
you are sure of the fatal conquest, you scorn the trifling 
glory; you are silent now. Oh, I am inevitably lost, or 
with you, or without you. And I find by this little silence 
and absence of yours that it is most certain I must either 
die, or be Philander’s. 


Sylvia. 


LORD GREY AND LADY BERKELEY. 


158 


P. S. — If Dorillus come not with a letter, or that my 
page, whom I have sent to his cottage for one, bring it 
not, I cannot support my life. For oh, Philander, I 
have a thousand wild distracting fears, knowing how you 
are involved in the interest you have espoused with the 
young Cesario ; how danger surrounds you ; how your 
life and glory depends on the frail secrecy of villains and 
rebels. Oh, give me leave to fear eternally your fame 
and life, if not your love. If Sylvia could command, 
Philander should be loyal as he is noble ; and what gen- 
erous maid would not suspect his vows to a mistress 
who breaks them with his prince and master. Heaven 
preserve you and your glory. 


n. 

Another night, oh, heavens, and yet no letter come! 
Where are you, my Philander? What happy place 
contains you ? If in heaven, why does not some posting 
angel bid me haste after you? If on earth, why does 
not some little god of love bring the grateful tidings on 
his painted wings ? If sick, why does not my own fond 
heart by sympathy inform me ? But that is all active, 
vigorous, wishing, impatient of delaying, silent, and busy 
in imagination. If you are false, if you have forgotten 
your poor, believing, and distracted Sylvia, why does not 
that kind tyrant, Death, that meagre, welcome vision of 
the despairing, old, and wretched, approach in dead of 
night, approach my restless bed, and toll the dismal 
tidings in my frighted listening ears, and strike me for 
ever silent, lay me for ever quiet, lost to the world, lost 
to my faithless charmer ! But if a sense of honor in you 
has made you resolve to prefer mine before your love, 
made you take up a noble, fatal resolution never to tell 
me more of your passion, this were a trial I fear my fond 
heart wants courage to bear ; or is it a trick, a cold fit 
only assumed to try how much I love you ? I have no 
arts, heaven knows, no guile or double meaning in my 
soul ; it is all plain native simplicity, fearful and timor- 


154 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


oils as children in the night, trembling as doves pursued 
born soft by nature, and made tender by love, what, oh ! 
what will become of me then ? Yet would I were con- 
firmed in all my fears. For, as I am, my condition is 
still more deplorable ; for I am in doubt, and doubt is 
the worst torment of the mind. Oh, Philander, be mer- 
ciful, and let me know the worst. Do not be cruel while 
you kill, do it with pity to the wretched Sylvia. Oh let 
me quickly know whether you are at all. Your most 
impatient and unfortunate 

Sylvia, 

I rave, I die for some relief. 


m. 

As I was going to send away this enclosed, Dorillus 
came with two letters. Oh, you cannot think, Philander, 
with how much reason you call me fickle maid ; for 
could you but imagine how I am tormentingly divided, 
how unresolved between violent love and cruel honor, 
you would say it were impossible to fix me anywhere, or 
be the same thing for a moment together. There is not 
a short hour passed through the swift hand of time since 
I was all despairing, raging love, jealous, fearful, and 
impatient ; and now, now that your fond letters have 
dispersed those demons, those tormenting counsellors, 
and given a little respite, a little tranquillity to my soul, 
like states luxurious grown with ease, it ungratefully 
rebels against the sovereign power that made it great 
and happy. And now that traitor honor heads the muti- 
neers within, honor, whom my late mighty fears had 
almost famished and brought to. nothing, warmed and 
revived by thy new protested flame, makes war against 
almighty love ! And I, who but now nobly resolved for 
love, by an inconstancy natural to my sex, or rather my 
fears, am turned over to honor’s side. So the despairing 
man stands on the river’s bank, designed to plunge into 
the rapid stream, till coward fear seizing his timorous 
soul, he views around once more the flowery plains, and 


LORD GREY AND LADY BERKELEY. 155 

looks with wishing eyes back to the groves, then sighing, 
stops and cries, “ I was too rash,” forsakes the danger- 
ous shore, and hastes away. Thus indiscreet was I, was 
all for love, fond and undying love ! But when I saw it 
with full tide flow in upon me, one glance of glorious 
honor makes me again retreat. I will — I am resolved, I 
must be brave ! I cannot forget I am daughter to the 
great Beralti, sister to Myrtilla, a yet unspotted maid, fit 
to produce a race of glorious heroes ! And can Philan- 
der’s love set no higher value on me than base, poor 
prostitution ? Is that the price of his heart ? Oh, how 
I hate thee now ! or would to heaven I could I 

Sylvia. 


IV. 


PHILANDER TO SYLVIA. 

My soul’s eternal joy, my Sylvia! What have you 
done, and oh, how durst you, knowing my fond heart, 
try it with so fatal a stroke ? What means this severe 
letter? and why so eagerly at this time ? Woe the day ! 
Is Myrtilla’s virtue so defended ? Is it a question now 
whether she is false or not ? Oh, poor, oh frivolous 
excuse ! You love me not ; by all that’s good, you love 
me not. To try your power, you have flattered and 
feigned. Oh, woman, false, charming woman ! you have 
undone me, I rave, and shall commit such extravagance 
that will ruin both. I must upbraid you, fickle and in- 
constant, I must. And this distance will not serve, it is 
too great ; my reproaches lose their force, I burst with 
resentment, with injured love, and you are either the 
most faithless of your sex, or the most malicious and 
tormenting. Oh, I am past tricks, Sylvia, your little 
arts might do well in a beginning flame, but to a settled 
fire, that is arrived to the highest degree, it does but 
damp its fierceness, and, instead of drawing one on, 
would lessen my esteem, if any such deceit were capable 


156 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


to harbor in the heart of Sylvia ; but she is all divine, 
and I am mistaken in the meaning of what she says. 

Remember, oh Sylvia, that five tedious days are past 
since I sighed at your dear feet ; and five days to a man 
so madly in love as your Philander, is a tedious age ; it 
is now six o’clock in the morning, Brillard will be with 
you by eight, and by ten I may have permission to see 
you, and then I need not say how soon I will present 
myself before you at Belfont. For heaven’s sake, my 
eternal blessing, if you design me this happiness, con- 
trive it so that I may see nobody that belongs to Belfont 
but the fair, the lovely Sylvia ; for I must be more 
moments with you than will be convenient to be taken 
notice of, lest they suspect our business to be love, and 
that discovery yet may ruin us. Oh, I will delay no 
longer, my soul is impatient to see you. I cannot live 
another night without it. I die, by heaven, I languish 
for the appointed hour. You will believe, when you see 
my languid face and dying eyes, how much and great a 
sufferer I am. 

My soul’s delight, you may perhaps deny me from your 
fear, but, oh, do not, though I ask a mighty blessing. 
Oh, though I faint with the thought only of so blessed 
an opportunity, yet you shall secure me, by what vows, 
by what imprecations, by what ties you please. But let 
me hear your angel’s voice, and have the transporting 
joy of throwing myself at your feet. And if you please, 
give me leave (a man condemned eternally to love) to 
plead a little for my life and passion. Let me remove 
your fears ; and though that mighty task never make 
me entirely happy, at least it will be a great satisfaction 
to me to know that it is not through my fault that I am 
the 


Most wretched 


Philander. 



Lady Rachel Russell 















































0 









LADY RACHEL RUSSELL. 


During the reign of James L, and his son Charles, 
there were born in England three remarkable women, 
who have remained almost unequalled as examples of pure 
love and conjugal affection. Lucy Hutchinson, the wife 
of one of Cromwell’s invincible soldiers; Anne Harrison, 
of Sir Richard Fanshawe, a gallant Cavalier; and Lady 
Rachel, daughter of the Earl of Southampton, and wife 
of the martyred Lord William Russell, executed for 
treason, July 21st, 1683. The first two mentioned each 
wrote their memoirs; they each had to endure privations, 
which they bore with heroic fortitude : they were each 
devoted to their husbands, and faithful to the principles 
which their husbands adopted. Lady Russell is known 
to literature by her much-admired ‘ Letters,’ and to his- 
tory by her great sorrows, compared with which the trials 
of Lady Fanshawe and Mrs. Col. Hutchinson cannot for 
a moment be compared. No examples in ancient or 
modem history can surpass the tenderness and fortitude 
of the noble lady of Lord Russell, who became his wife 
in 1667, and who survived him forty years. The day 
before his trial for high treason she wrote: “ Your friends 
believing I can do you some service at your trial, I am 
extremely willing to try; — my resolution will hold out ; 
pray let yours;” and when the prisonor asked for some- 
body to write, to help his memory, and the court gave 
permission that he might have a servant, he replied. 


158 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


“ My wife is here to do it.” Lady Russell’s fortitude and 
magnanimity during the trial excited even the admiration 
of her husband’s bitterest foes. After her death in 1723, 
two collections of her correspondence were published, 
including her letters to her husband, and her correspon- 
dence from the date of Lord Russell’s execution till the 
time of George the First. 


L 

LADY RUSSELL TO LORD RUSSELL. 

Tunbridge Wells, 1678. 

After a toilsome day, there is some refreshment to be 
telhng our story to our best friends. I have seen your 
girl well laid in bed, and ourselves have made our sup- 
pers upon biscuits, a bottle of white wine, and another 
of beer, and mingled my uncle’s whey with nutmeg and 
sugar. None are disposing to bed, not so much as com- 
plaining of weariness. Beds and things are all very well 
here ; our want is yourself and good weather. But now 
I have told you our present condition ; to say a little of 
the past, I do really think, if I could have imagined the 
illness of the journey, it would have discouraged me ; it 
is not to be expressed how bad the way is from Seven 
Oaks ; but our horses did exceedingly well, and Spencer 
very diligent, often off his horse to lay hold of the coach. 
I have not much more to say this night ; I hope the quilt 
is remembered ; and Francis must remember to send 
more biscuits, either when you come or soon after. I 
long to hear from you, my dearest soul, and truly think 
your absence already an age. I have no mind to my 
gold plate ; here is no table to set it on ; but if that does 
not come, I desire you would bid Betty Forster send the 
silver glass I use every day. In discretion, I haste to 
bed, longing for Monday, I assure you. 

From your 


R. Russell. 


LADY EACHEL EUSSELL. 


159 


Past ten o'clock . — Lady Margaret says we are not 
glutted with company yet ; you will let Northumberland 
know we are well ; and Allie. 


n. 

Stratton, 1681 — Thursday morning. 

A messenger bringing things from Ailsford this morn- 
ing, gives me the opportunity of sending this by post. 
If he will leave it at Frimley, it will let you know we are 
all well ; if he does not, it may let such know it as do 
not care, but satisfy no one’s curiosity on any other point ; 
for having said thus much, I am ready to conclude, with 
this one secret, first, that as thy precious self is the most 
endearing husband, I believe, in the world, so I am the 
most grateful wife, and my heart most gladly passionate 
in its returns. Now you have all for this time, 

From your R. Russell. 

Boy is asleep, girls singing abed. Lord Marquis sent 
a compliment yesterday, that he heard one of the girls 
had the measles ; and if I would remove the rest, he 
would leave his house at an hour’s warning. I hope you 
deliver my service to Mr. James. 

For the Lord Russell , to he left at Frimley . 


DEAN SWIFT. 


Love why do we one passion call. 

When ’tis a compound of them all? 

Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet, 

In all their equipages meet; 

Where pleasures mix’d with pains appear, 

Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear. 

Cadenus and Vanessa. 


As a writer of pure, plain, vigorous, idiomatic English, 
Jonathan Swift has no superior, nor do we find in the 
annals of literature any account of such strange and 
unmanly conduct towards women as was exhibited in 
the career of the Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Who 
has not heard of Stella and Vanessa, two amiable and 
devoted creatures, that fell victims to his barbarous 
selfishness, as certainly murdered as if he had plunged a 
poniard through their hearts ? Lilliput and Brobdignag 
will not longer preserve the name of Dean Swift, than 
will the record of his cruel and execrable treatment of 
Varina, Stella, and Vanessa. ’Tis an oft-told tale, and 
one of the saddest in literary biography. Swift, though 
Irish by birth, was of English descent. His grandfather 
was a clergyman in Herefordshire, and married a cousin 
of the poet Dryden : his father who was steward of the 
Irish inns of Court, died in 1667, and Jonathan was bom 
at Dublin, in the same year. When a student in the 
University of his native city, he fell in love with Jane 
Waryng, (Varina) whom he deserted after a fifteen years’ 
engagement. His next victim, Esther Johnson, (Stella,) 
was an inmate at New Park, the seat of Sir William 


DEAN SWUT. 


161 


Temple, and when Swift first saw her was a blooming 
girl of fifteen, with very black hair, brilliant eyes and 
delicate features. Five years later he persuaded her to 
leave England, and under the protection of a respectable 
elderly lady take up her residence near him at Laracor. 
Subsequently, when he became Dean of .St. Patricks, she 
removed to Dublin. He was accustomed to spend part 
of every day in her society : but never without the 4 
presence of a third person ; and when he was absent 
Stella and Mrs. Dingley, (often alluded to in Swift’s 
humorous poems,) took possession of the Deanery and 
occupied it till his return. To her lodgings came Swift’s 
friends, who were among the most clever and cultivated 
men of the day : and at the Dean’s dinner parties, she 
was usually present, where, says Sheridan, “ the modesty 
of her manners, the sweetness of her disposition, and the 
brilliance of her wit, rendered her the general object of 
admiration to all who were so happy as to have a place in 
that enviable society.” While in Laracor in 1710, Swift 
met Esther Vanhomrigh (Vanessa.) A great deal has 
been written about this unfortunate lady, most of which is 
mere conjecture beyond what is contained in Swift’s 
“ Journal to Stella,” and his poem of “ Cadenus and 
Vanessa.” Much in the same way as Stella had done, did 
this third victim with her sister follow him to Dublin, 
taking up her residence there. Stella’s jealousy caused 
stormy scenes ; the presence of her rival, and the un- 
settled state of Swift’s affections preyed upon her, and 
her health gave way. He commissioned the Bishop of 
Clogher to ask the cause of her melancholy and the 
result of his inquiry was that his behavior had totally 
changed, and that a cold indifference had succeeded to 
the warmest professions of eternal affection — -that the 
necessary consequences would be an indelible stain fixed 
on her character, and the loss of her good name which 


162 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


was dearer to her than her life. Swift at length con- 
sented to their marriage on the humiliating conditions 
that she would keep it secret and should continue to live 
separately exactly as they did before. In 1716 Swift and 
Stella were privately married by Dr. Ashe, Bishop of 
Clogher, the ceremony taking place at the Deanery. He 
never saw her alone until she lay on her deathbed ; a 
singular state of things, for which various reasons have 
conjecturally been assigned. Swift continued to visit 
and correspond with Vanessa ; she was always melan- 
choly when he was absent, when he came she was happy : 
and so the months and years passed, the poor girl wait- 
ing in heart-wearying suspense for the day that she 
could call him husband. The conclusion of one of his 
letters written at this time to Vanessa shows Swift to 
have been a scoundrel. He says : “ Mais soyez assuree 
que jamais personne au monde n’a ete aimee, honoree, 
estimee, adoree par votre ami, que vous.” Unable to 
endure her misery any longer, she in 1723 wrote to 
Stella demanding to know her relations with Swift. 
Stella enclosed the letter to him and he in a paroxysm of 
fury, presented himself to Vanessa, and with a look of 
scorn threw it down and departed without a word. This 
cruel scene was her death-warrant ; the shock was too 
much ; it threw her in a delirious fever, and in a few 
weeks she was in 

“Those everlasting gardens, 

Where angels walk, and seraphs are the wardens.” 

His other victim did not long survive, but died of a 
lingering decline, broken in heart, and blighted in name, 
four years after the death of Vanessa. 

When Swift and Stella met alone for the first and last 
time after their marriage, it was when his poor wife was 


DEAN SWIET. 


163 


dying. A door being left ajar to give the invalid air, a 
portion of tlieir conversation was overbeard, though they 
spoke in whispers. “ Well, my dear,” said her destroyer, 
“ it shall be acknowledged if you wish it,” to which she 
answered with a sigh, “It is now too late.” After her 
death one of her dark tresses came into the possession 
of an antiquary. It was wrapped in paper and inscribed 
in Swift’s hand-writing, “only a woman’s hair.” He 
survived poor Stella seventeen years, and died in 1745, 
a drivelling idiot, bequeathing all his property, amount- 
ing to about fifty thousand dollars, for the foundation of 
an asylum for lunatics and idiots. 


L 

SWIFT TO V ARINA 


April, 29 , 1696 . 

Madam, — Impatience is the most inseparable quality 
of a lover, indeed, of every person who is in pursuit of 
a design whereon he conceives his greatest happiness or 
misery to depend. It is the same thing in war, in courts, 
and in common business. Every one who hunts after 
pleasure, or fame, or fortune, is still restless and uneasy till 
he has hunted down his game ; and all this is not only very 
natural, but something reasonable too ; for a violent de- 
sire is little better than a distemper, and therefore men 
are not to blame in looking after a cure. I find myself 
hugely infected with this malady, and am easily vain 
enough to believe it has some very good reasons to excuse 
it. For, indeed, in my case, there are some circumstances 
which will admit pardon for more than ordinary disquiets. 
That dearest object upon which all my prospect of happi- 


164 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


ness entirely depends, is in perpetual danger to be re- 
moved forever from my sight. Varina’s life is daily 
wasting ; and though one just and honorable action 
would furnish health to her, and unspeakable happiness 
to us both, yet some power that repines at human felicity 
has that influence to hold her continually doting upon 
her cruelty, and me on the cause of it. This fully con- 
vinces me of what we are told, that the miseries of man’s 
life are all beaten out on his own anvil. Why was I so 
foolish to put my hopes and fears into the power or 
management of another ? Liberty is doubtless the most 
valuable blessing of life ; yet we are found to fling it 
away on those who have been these five thousand years 
using us ill. Philosophy advises us to keep our desires 
and prospects of happiness as much as we can in our own 
breasts, and independent of anything without. He that 
sends them abroad is likely to have as little quiet as a 
merchant whose stock depends upon winds, and waves, 
and pirates, or upon the words and faith of creditors^ every 
whit as dangerous and inconstant as the other. 

I am a villain if I have not been poring this half-hour 
over the paper, merely for want of something to say to 
you ; or is it rather that I have so much to say to you, 
that I know not where to begin, though at last ’tis all 
very likely to be arrant repetition ? 

You have now had time enough to consider my last 
letter, and to form your own resolutions upon it. I wait 
your answer with a world of impatience ; and if you think 
fit I should attend you before my journey, I am ready to 
do it. My Lady Donegal tells me that it is feared my 
Lord Deputy will not live many days ; and if that be so, 
it is possible I may take shipping from hence, otherwise 
I shall set out on Monday fortnight for Dublin, and after 
one visit of leave to his Excellency, hasten to England ; 
and how far you will stretch the point of your unreason- 
able scruples to keep me here, will depend upon the 
strength of the love you pretend for me. In short, 
madam, I am once more offered the advantage to have 
the same acquaintance with greatness that I formerly en- 
joyed, and with better prospect of interest. I here 
solemnly offer to forego it all for your sake. I desire 
nothing of your fortune ; you shall live where and with 


DEAN SWIFT. 


165 


whom yon please till my affairs are settled to your desire ; 
and in the meantime I will push my advancement with 
all the eagerness and courage imaginable, and do not 
doubt to succeed. 

Study seven years for objections against all this, and 
by heaven they will at last be no more than trifles and 
put-offs. It is true you have known sickness longer than 
you have me, and therefore, perhaps, you are more eager 
to part with it as an older acquaintance ; but listen to 
what I here solemnly protest by all that can be witness 
to an oath, that if I leave this kingdom before you are 
mine, I will endure the utmost indignities of fortune 
rather than ever return again, though the king would 
send me back his deputy. And if it must be so, preserve 
yourself, in God’s name, for the next lover who has those 
qualities you love so much beyond any of mine, and who 
will highly admire you for those advantages which shall 
never share any esteem from me. Would to heaven you 
were but a while sensible of the thoughts into which my 
present distractions plunge me ; they hale me a thousand 
ways, and I am not able to bear them. It is so, by 
heaven : the love of Varina is of more tragical conse- 
quence than her cruelty. Would to God you had treated 
and scorned me from the beginning ! It was your pity 
that opened first the way to my misfortune ; and now 
your love is finishing my ruin ; and is it so then ? In 
one fortnight I must take eternal farewell of Varina ; and 
(I wonder) will she weep at parting a little to justify her 
poor pretences of some affection to me? and will my 
friends still continue reproaching me for want of gallan- 
try, and neglecting a close siege ? How comes it they all 
wish us married together, they knowing my circumstances 
and yours extremely well, and I am sure love you too 
much, if it be only for my sake, to wish you anything that 
might cross your interest or your happiness ? 

Surely, Varina, you have but a very mean opinion of 
the joys that accompany a true, honorable, unlimited 
love ; yet either nature and our ancestors have highly de- 
ceived us, or else all other sublunary things are dross in 
comparison. Is it possible you can be yet insensible to 
the prospect of a rapture and delight so innocent and so 
exalted ? Trust me, Varina, heaven has given us nothing 


166 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


else worth the loss of a thought. Ambition, high appear- 
ances, friends, and fortune, are all tasteless and insipid 
when they come in competition ; yet millions of such 
glorious minutes are we perpetually losing, for ever losing, 
irrecoverably losing, to gratify empty forms and wrong 
notions, and affected coldnesses and peevish humor. 
These are the unhappy encumbrances which we who are 
distinguished from the vulgar do fondly create to tor- 
ment ourselves. The only felicity permitted to human 
life we clog with tedious circumstances and barbarous 
formality. By heaven, Varina, you are more experienced, 
and have less virgin innocence than I. Would not your 
conduct make one think you were hugely skilled in all the 
little politic methods of intrigue ? Love, with the gall 
of too much discretion, is a thousand times worse than 
with none at all. It is a peculiar part of nature which 
art debauches but cannot improve. We have all of us 
the seeds of it implanted in ourselves, and they require 
no help from courts or fortune to cultivate and improve 
them. To resist the violence of our inclinations in the 
beginning is a strain of self-denial that may have some 
pretences to set up for a virtue ; but when they are 
grounded at first upon reason, when they have taken firm 
root and grown up to a height, ’tis folly — folly as well as 
injustice, to withstand their dictates ; for this passion has 
a property peculiar to itself, to be most commendable in 
its extremes ; and ’tis as possible to err in excess of piety 
as of love. 

These are the rules I have long followed with you, Va- 
rina ; and had you pleased to imitate them, we should 
have been infinitely unhappy. The little disguises and 
affected contradictions of your sex, were all (to say the 
truth) infinitely beneath persons of your pride and mine ; 
paltry maxims, that they are, calculated for the rabble of 
humanity. O, Varina, how imagination leads me beyond 
myself and all my sorrows ! It is sunk, and a thousand 
graves lie open ! No, madam, I will give you no more 
of my unhappy temper, though I derive it all from you. 

Farewell, madam, and may love make you awhile forget 
your temper to do me justice. Only remember, that if 
you still refuse to be mine, you will quickly lose, for ever 
lose, him that has resolved to die as he has lived, all yours, 

Jon. Swift. 


DEAN SWIFT. 


167 


n 

VANESSA TO SWIFT. 

You bid ine be easy, and yon would see me as often as 
you could. You bad better have said, as often as you 
could get the better of your inclinations so mucb, or as 
often as you remember there was such a one in tbe world. 
If you continue to treat me as you do, you will not be 
made uneasy by me long. It is impossible to describe 
wbat I have suffered since I saw you last. I am sure I 
could have borne tbe rack mucb better than those killing, 
killing words of yours. Sometimes I have resolved to 
die without seeing you more, but those resolves, to your 
misfortune, did not last long. For there is something in 
human nature that prompts one so to find relief in this 
world, I must give way to it, and beg you would see me, 
and speak kindly to me ; for I am sure you would not 
condemn any one to suffer what I have done, could you 
but know it. The reason I write to you is, because I 
cannot tell it to you should I see you ; for when I begin 
to complain, then you are angry, and there is something 
in your looks so awful, that it strikes me dumb. O ! but 
that you may have but so much regard for me left, that 
this complaint may touch your soul with pity ! I say as 
little as ever I can ; did you but know what I thought, I 
am sure it would move you to forgive me : and believe I 
cannot help telling you this and live. 


m. 

VANESSA TO SWIFT. 

London, Sept. 1st, 1712. 

Had I a correspondent in China, I might have had an 
answer by this time. I never could think till now that 


168 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


London was so far off in your thoughts, and that twenty 
miles were, by your computation, equal to some thousands. 
I thought it a piece of charity to undeceive you in this 
point, and to let you know, if you give yourself tie 
trouble to write, I may probably receive your letter in a 
day : ’twas that made me venture to take pen in hand the 
third time. Sure you’ll not let it be to no purpose. Tou 
must needs be extremely happy where you are, to forget 
absent friends ; and I believe you have formed a new 
system, and think there is no more of this world, passing 
your sensible horizon. If this be your notion, I must 
excuse you ; if not, you can plead no other excuse ; and 
if it be, sir, I must reckon myself of another world; but I 
shall have much ado to be persuaded till you send me 
some convincing arguments of it. Don’t dally in a thing 
of this consequence, but demonstrate that ’tis possible to 
keep up a correspondence between Mends though in 
different worlds, and assure one another, as I do you, 
that I am your most obedient and most humble servant, 

E. Vanhombigh. 


IV. 


SWIFT TO VANESSA. 

If you knew how many little difficulties there are in 
sending letters to you, it would remove five parts in six 
of your quarrel ; but since you lay hold of my promises, 
and are so exact to the day, I shall promise you no more, 
and rather choose to be better than my word than 
worse. I am confident you came chiding into the world, 
and will continue so while you are in it. I was in great 
apprehension that poor Molkin was worse ; and till I 
could be satisfied in that particular I would not write 
again ; but I little expected to have heard of your own 
ill health : and those who saw you since made no men- 
tion to me of it. I wonder what Molkin meant by 
showing you my letter. I will write to her no more, 
since she can keep secrets no better. 


BEAN SWIFT. 


169 


It was the first love-letter I have writ these dozen 
years ; and since I have had such ill success, I will write 
no more. Never was a belle passion so defeated. But 
the governor, I hear, is jealous : and upon your word 
you have a vast deal to say to me about it. Mind your 
nurse-keeping, do your duty, and leave off huffing. One 
would imagine you were in love, by dating your letter 
August 29th, by which means I received it just a month 
before it was written. You do not find I answer your 
questions to your satisfaction ; prove to me first that it 
was possible to answer anything to your satisfaction, so 
as that you would not grumble in half an hour. 1 am 
glad my writing puzzles you, for then your time will be 
employed in finding it out ; and I am sure it cost me a 
great many thoughts to make my letter difficult. * * * 
Yesterday I was half way towards you, where I dined, 
and returned weary enough. I asked where that road 
to the left led ? and they named the place. I wish your 
letters were as difficult as mine, for then they would be 
of no consequence if they were dropt by careless messen- 
gers. A stroke thus — signifies everything that may be 
said to Cad* at the beginning or conclusion. It is I 
who ought to be in a huff, that anything written by Cad 
should be difficult to Skinage. I must now leave off 
abruptly, for I intend to send this letter to-day, August 4. 


y. 


VANESSA TO SWIFT. 

Cad — you are good beyond expression, and I will 
never quarrel again if I can help it ; but, with submission, 
’tis you that are so hard to be pleased, though you com- 
plain of me. I thought the last letter I wrote to you 
was obscure and constrained enough. I took pains to 
write it after your manner ; it would have been much 


• Cadenus was a name assumed by Swift in this correspondence 


170 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


easier for me to have wrote otherwise. I am not so 
unreasonable as to expect you should keep your word to 
a day, but six or seven days are great odds. Why 
should your apprehensions for Molkin hinder you from 
writing to me? I think you should have wrote the 
sooner to have comforted me. Molkin is better, but in a 
very weak way Though those who saw me told you 
nothing of my illness, I do assure you I was for twenty- 
four hours as ill as ’twas possible to be, and live. You 
wrong me when you say I did not find that you answered 
my questions to my satisfaction. What I said was, I 
had asked those questions as you bid, but could not find 
them answered to my satisfaction. How could they be 
answered in absence, since Somnus is not my friend? 
We have had a vast deal of thunder and lightning — 
where do you think I wished to be then ? And do you 
think I wished to be then ? Think that was the only 
time I wished so since I saw you? I am sorry my 
jealousy should hinder you from writing more love- 
letters ; for I must chide sometimes, and I wish I could 
gain by it at this instant, as I have done, and hope to do. 
Is my dating my letter wrong the only sign of my being 
in love ? Pray tell me, did not you wish to come where 
that road to the left would have led you ? I am mightily 
pleased to hear you talk of being in a huff ; ’tis the first 
time you ever told me so. I wish I could see you in 
one. I am now as happy as I can be without seeing — 
Cad. I beg you will continue happiness to your own 
Skinage. 


VL 

SWIFT TO VANESSA. 

Gallstown, near Kinnegad, July 5, 1721. 

It was not convenient, hardly possible, to write to 
you before now, though I had more than ordinary mind 
to do it, considering the disposition I found you in last, 
though I hope I left you in a better. I must here beg 


DEAN SWIFT. 


171 


you to take more care of your health by company and 
exercise, or else the spleen will get the better of you, 
than which there is not a more foolish or troublesome 
disease ; and that you have no pretences in the world to, 
if all the advantages in life can be any defence against it. 
Cad assures me he continues to esteem, and love, and 
value above all things, and so will do to the end of his 
life, but at the same time entreats that you would not 
make yourself or him unhappy by imaginations. The 
wisest men in all ages have thought it the best course to 
seize the minutes as they fly, and to make every innocent 
action an amusement. If you knew how I struggle for a 
little health, what uneasiness I am at in riding and walk- 
ing, and refraining from everything agreeable to my 
taste, you would think it but a small thing to take a 
coach now and then, and converse with fools and imper- 
tinents, to avoid spleen and sickness. Without health, 
you will lose all desire of drinking your coffee, and 
become so low as to have no spirits. I answer all your 
questions that you were used to ask Cad, and he pro- 
tests he answers them in the affirmative. How go your 
law affairs ? You were once a good lawyer, but Cad has 
spoiled you. Pray write to me cheerfully, without com- 
plaints or expostulations, or else Cad shall know it, and 
punish you. What is this world without being as easy 
in it as prudence and fortune can make it. I find it 
every day more silly and insignificant, and I conform 
myself to it for my own ease. I am here as deeply em- 
ployed in other folks’ plantations and ditchings, as if 
they were my own concern, and think of my absent 
friends with delight, and hopes of seeing them happy, 
and of being happy with them. 

Shall you, who have so much honor and good sense, 
act otherwise to make Cad and yourself miserable? 
Settle your affairs, and quit this scoundrel island, and 
things are as you desire. I can say no more, being called 
away — mais soyez assuree que jamais personneaumonden’a 
ete aimee, honor ee, estim'ee adoree par votre ami que vous. I 
have drank no coffee since I left you nor intend till I see 
you again ; there is none worth drinking but yours, if my- 
self may be the judge. Adieu. 


172 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


m 

HAffTTA'RJSA TO SWIFT.* 

Thursday, Morning Four o’clock. 

If I was not thoroughly convinced that the author of 
this distracted scroll will forever be sunk in oblivion, I 
would choose death in any shape before I would reveal 
the continual anguish I have suffered, even before I saw 
your godlike form; for believe me, my passion first got 
birth by perusing your inimitable writings. If women 
were allowed to speak their thoughts, I would glory in 
my choice, and spread your fame (if possible) further 
than these narrow limits of the earth. 

’Tis my misfortune to be in the care of persons who 
generally keep youth under such restraint as won’t per- 
mit them to publish their passion, though never so vio- 
lent. And such I must confess mine for you to be. 
Could you conceive the many pangs, the many different 
pangs I feel, I flatter myself you would lighten the in- 
supportable burthen of my love by generously bearing a 
part. When I consider to whom I speak, that ’tis to the 
divine, immortal Swift, I am confounded at my vanity ; 
but alas ! the malignity of my disorder is so great, that 
my love soon gets the better of the regard and homage 
I render even to his name. But certain it is, if you don’t 
flatter this absurd but sincere passion of mine, I must 
expect death as the just reward of my presumption; and 
be assured were it any but yourself I would cheerfully 
suffer that before I would have my passion returned with 
disdain. And as I expect no other from you, beg you’ll 
publish it in Faulkner's Journal , under what fictitious 
name you please: for if I have the least understanding I 
shall distinguish your writings (under ever so many dis- 
advantages) from any other: (inscribe it Sacharisa). 


* The writer of this letter is not known. Sacharisa is the poetical name given by 
the courtly Waller to one of his loves, the Lady Dorothea Sydney, and signifies 
sweetness , 


DEAN SWIFT. 


173 


You may easily imagine with what impatience I shall 
expect Friday. I can’t add how much I am yours till the 
arrival of my doom. 

Saoharisa. 


vm. 


SWIFT TO VANESSA. 

Nymph, would you learn the only art 
To keep a worthy lover’s heart, 

First, to adorn your person well, 

In utmost cleanliness excel; 

And though you must the fashions take, 
Observe them but for fashions’ sake. 
The strongest reason will submit 
To virtue, honor, sense, and wit. 

To such a nymph, the wise and good 
Cannot be faithless, if they would: 

For vices all have different ends. 

But Virtue still to Virtue tends; 

And when your lover is not true, 

’Tis Virtue fails in him, or you; 

And either he deserves disdain, 

Or you without a cause complain. 

But here Vanessa cannot err, 

Nor are these rules applied to her. 

For who could such a nymph forsake. 
Except a blockhead or a rake ? 

Or how could she her heart bestow, 
Except where wit and Virtue grow ? 


IX. 

SWIFT TO STELLA. 

Stella’s birthday. 

Stella, this day is thirty-four 

S ~Ve shan’t dispute a year or more); 
owever Stella be not troubled, 


174 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Although thy size and years are doubled 
Since first I saw thee at sixteen, 

The brightest virgin on the green; 

So little is thy form declined, 

Made up so largely is thy mind. 

Oh, would it please the Gods to split 
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit 1 
No age could furnish art a pair 
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair; 
With half the lustre of your eyes, 

With half your wit, your years, and size. 
And then before it grew too late, 

How should I beg of gentle Fate, 

(That either nymph might have her swain) 
To split my worship too in twain. 






SIR RICHARD STEELE. 


Sir Richard Steele, a writer who ranks as second only 
to Addison among English Essayists was bom in 1671 at 
Dublin, to which city his father had gone as secretary to 
the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. Steele was sent to Ox- 
ford to complete his education, but bent on being a 
soldier, and discouraged by his family, he eloped and en- 
listed in the Horse Guards. His officers, knowing him to 
be a gentleman, and becoming aware of his social quali- 
ties, procured for him an ensign’s commission ; and, in 
the gay company of the mess, he exhibited and cherished 
his good-hearted liveliness, his inclination for dissipated 
extravagance, and the flightiness which in after life made 
him a rash and unsuccessful speculator. After the acces- 
sion of George the First, Steele was knighted and ap- 
pointed a commissioner for the forfeited estates in Scot- 
land. He died in "Wales in 1729. The following love 
letters were addressed to Miss Mary Scurlock, who in 
accordance with the fashion in vogue a century and a 
half ago, was styled “Mrs.,” only girls under ten years of 
age being addressed as Miss. She afterwards became 
the wife of Sir Richard Steele. The first six of the series 
are taken from the “ Tatler” and “ Spectator,” and have 
been pronounced “ masterpieces of ardor and respect, of 
tender passion and hopest feeling, of good sense and 


176 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


earnestness, as well as of playful sweetness.” The first 
one is introduced with the following paragraph : 


“ White’s Chocolate-house, June 29. 

“ I know no manner of news from this place, but that 
Cynthio, having been long in despair for the inexorable 
Clarissa, lately resolved to fall in love with the good old 
way of bargain and sale, and has pitched upon a very 
agreeable young woman. He will undoubtedly succeed ; 
for he accosts her in a strain of familiarity, without break- 
ing through the deference that is due to a woman whom 
a man would choose for his life. I have hardly ever 
heard rough truth spoken with a better grace than in 
this his letter. 


L 

STEELE TO MARY SOURLOOK. 

“Madam: — I writ to you on Saturday by Mrs. Lucy 
and give you this trouble to urge the same request I 
made then, which was, that I may be permitted to wait 
upon you. I should be very far from desiring this, if it 
was a transgression of the most severe rules to allow it : 
I know you are very much above the little arts which are 
frequent in your sex, of giving unnecessary torments to 
their admirers ; therefore hope you will do so much jus- 
tice to the generous passion I have for you, as to let me 
have an opportunity of acquainting you upon what motives 
I pretend to your good opinion. I shall not trouble you 
with my sentiments until I know how they will be re- 
ceived ; and as I know no reason why difference of sex 
should make our language to each other differ from the 
ordinary rules of right reason, I shall affect plainness and 
sincerity in my discourse to you, as much as other lovers 
do perplexity and rapture. Instead of saying, I shall die 
for you, I profess I should be glad to lead my life with 
you ; you are as beautiful, as witty, as prudent, and as 


SIR RICHARD STEELE. 


177 


good-humored, as any woman breathing; but, I must 
confess to you, I regard all these excellencies as you will 
please to direct them for my happiness or misery. With 
me, madam, the only lasting motive to love, is the hope 
of its becoming mutual. I beg of you to let Mrs. Lucy 
send me word when I may attend 3 r ou. I promise you I 
will talk of nothing but indifferent things ; though, at the 
same time, I know not how I shall approach you in the 
tender moment of first seeing you, after this declaration 
of, madam, your most obedient, and most faithful humble 
servant,” etc. 

More than two years elapse before the fair readers of 
the two famous periodical papers that bestowed a new 
charm upon society were indulged with any more love- 
letters. In the ‘ Spectator,’ No. 142, the anxiety for a 
continuation of such impassioned effusions was abundant- 
ly gratified. 

“ The following being genuine, and the images of a 
worthy passion, I am willing to give the old lady’s ad- 
monition to myself, and the representation of her own 
happiness, a place in my writings. 


“ August 9th, 1711. 

“Mr. Spectator: — I am now in the sixty-seventh year 
of my age, and read you with approbation ; but methinks 
you do not strike at the root of the greatest evil in life, 
which is the false notion of gallantry in love. It is, and 
has long been, upon a very ill foot ; but I who have been 
a wife forty years, and was bred up in a way that has 
made me ever since very happy, see through the folly of 
it. In a word, sir, when I was a young woman, all who 
avoided the vices of the age were very carefully educated, 
and all fantastical objects were turned out of our sight. 
The tapestry-hangings, with the great and venerable sim- 
plicity of the Scripture stories, had better effects than 
now the loves of Yenus and Adonis, or Bacchus and 
Ariadne, in your fine present prints. The gentleman I 
am married to made love to me in rapture, but it was the 
rapture of a Christian, and a man of honor, not of a ro- 


178 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


mantic hero or a whining coxcomb. This put our life 
upon a right basis. To give you an idea of our regard 
one to another, I inclose you several of his letters writ 
forty years ago, when my lover ; and one writ the other 
day, after so many years* cohabitation. 

Your servant, 

Andromache. 


n 


August 7th, 1671. 

“Madam: — If my vigilance, and ten thousand wishes 
for your welfare and repose, could have any force, you 
last night slept in security, and had every good angel in 
your attendance. To have my thoughts ever fixed on 
you, to live in constant fear of every accident to which 
human life is liable, and to send up my hourly prayers to 
avert them from you ; I say, madam, thus to think, and 
thus to suffer, is what I do for her who is in pain at my 
approach, and calls all my tender sorrow impertinence. 
You are now before my eyes, my eyes that are ready tc 
flow with tenderness, but cannot give relief to my gush- 
ing heart, that dictates what I am now saying, and yearns 
to tell you all its achings. How art thou, oh my soul, 
stolen from thyself! how is all my attention broken ! my 
books are blank paper, and my friends intruders. I have 
no hope of quiet but from your pity. To grant it would 
make more for your triumph. To give pain is the ty- 
ranny, to make happy the true empire of beauty. If you 
would consider aright, you would find an agreeable 
change in dismissing the attendance of a slave, to receive 
the complaisance of a companion. I bear the former in 
hopes of the latter condition. As I live in chains without 
murmuring at the power which inflicts them, so I could 
enjoy freedom without forgetting the mercy that gave it. 

I am, Madam, 

Your most devoted, most obedient servant. 


SIR RICHARD STEELE. 


179 


Though I made him no declarations in his favor, you 
see he had hopes of me when he writ this in the month 
following : 


nx 

Septembee 3rd, 1671* 

“ Madam, — Before the light this morning dawned upon 
the earth I awaked, and lay in expectation of its return, 
not that it could give any new sense of joy to me, but as 
I hoped it would bless you with its cheerful face, after a 
quiet which I wished you last night. If my prayers are 
heard, the day appeared with all the influence of a merci- 
ful Creator upon your person and actions. Let others, 
my lovely charmer, talk of a blind being that disposes 
their hearts ; I contemn their low images of love. I have 
not a thought which relates to you, that I cannot with 
confidence beseech the All-seeing Power to bless me in. 
May he direct you in all your steps, and reward your in- 
nocence, your sanctity of manners, your prudent youth, 
and becoming piety, with the continuance of his grace 
and protection. This is an unusual language to ladies ; 
but you have a mind elevated above the giddy notions of 
a sex insnared by flattery, and misled by a false and short 
adoration into a solid and long contempt. Beauty, my 
fairest creature, palls in the possession, but I love also 
your mind ; your soul is as dear to me as my own ; and 
if the advantages of a liberal education, some knowledge, 
and as much contempt of the world, joined with the en- 
deavors towards a life of strict virtue and religion, can 
qualify me to raise new ideas in a breast so well disposed 
as yours is, our days will pass away with joy; and old 
age, instead of introducing melancholy prospects of decay, 
give us hope of eternal youth in a better life. I have but 
few minutes from the duty of my employment to write in, 
and without time to read over what I have writ ; there- 
fore beseech you to pardon the first hints of my mind, 
which I have expressed in so little order. 

I am, dearest creature, 

Your most obedient, most devoted servaut. 


180 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


The two next were written after the day for our mar- 
riage was fixed. 


IV. 


September 25th, 1671. 

Madam : — It is the hardest thing in the world to be in 
love, and yet attend business. As for me, all that speak 
to find me out, and I must lock myself up, or other peo- 
ple will do it for me. A gentleman asked me this morn- 
ing, “ What news from Holland ?” and I answered, “ She 
is exquisitely handsome.” Another desired to know when 
I had been last at Windsor; I replied, “ She designs to 
go with me.” Pr’ythee, allow me at least to kiss your 
hand before the appointed day, that my mind may be in 
some composure. Methinks I could write a volume to 
you, but all the language on earth would fail in saying 
how much, and with what disinterested passion, 

I am ever yours. 


V. 


September 30th, seven in the morning. 

Dear Creature : — Next to the influence of heaven, 1 
am to thank you that I see the returning day with 
pleasure. To pass my evenings in so sweet a conversa- 
tion, and have the esteem of a woman of your merit, has 
in it a particularity of happiness no more to be expressed 
than returned. But I am, my lovely creature, contented 
to be on the obliged side, and to employ all my days in 
new endeavors to convince you and all the world of the 
sense I have of your condescension in choosing, 

Madam, your most faithful, 

Most obedient, humble servant. 


SIB BICHAED STEELE. 181 

He was, when he writ the following letter, as agreeable 
and pleasant a man as any in England : 


YU 


October 20th, 1671. 

Madam : — I beg pardon that my paper is not finer, but 
I am forced to write from a coffee-house where I am 
attending about business. There is a dirty crowd of busy 
faces all around me talking of money, while all my ambi- 
tion, all my wealth, is love : love, which animates my 
heart, sweetens my humor, enlarges my soul, and affects 
every action of my life. It is to my lovely charmer I owe 
that many noble ideas are continually affixed to my words 
and actions : it is the natural effect of that generous pas- 
sion to create in the admirers some similitude of the ob- 
ject admired; thus, my dear, am I every day to improve 
from so sweet a companion. Look up, my fair one, to 
that heaven which made thee such, and join with me to 
implore its influence on our tender innocent hours, and 
beseech the author of love to bless the rites he has or- 
dained, and mingle with our happiness a just sense of our 
transient condition, and a resignation to his will, which 
only can regulate our minds to a steady endeavor to 
please him and each other. 

I am, forever, your faithful servant. 

By the publication of Steele’s letters, written during 
his married life, an eminent writer says, “the most pri- 
vate thoughts, the most familiar and unguarded expres- 
sions, weaknesses which the best men pass their lives in 
concealing, self-reproaches that' only arise to the most 
generous natures — everything, in short, that Kichard 
Steele uttered in the confidence of an intimacy the most 
sacred, and which repeatedly he had begged * might be 
shown to no one living,’ became the property of all the 


LOVE IN LETTEM 


182 

world. It will be seen, as we proceed, bow he stands a 
test such as never was applied, within our knowledge, to 
any other man on earth.” The first of the following 
letters was published as a Dedication to the “ The Ladies’ 
Library.” 


m 


July 21st, 1714. 

Madam: — If great obligations received are just motives 
for addresses of this kind, you have an unquestionable 
pretension to my acknowledgments, who have conde- 
scended to give me your very self. I can make no return 
for so inestimable a favor but in acknowledging the 
generosity of the giver. To have either wealth, wit,* or 
beauty, is generally a temptation to a woman to put an 
unreasonable value upon herself; but with all these, in a 
degree which drew upon you the addresses of men of the 
simplest fortunes, you bestowed your person where you 
could have no expectations but from the gratitude of the 
receiver, though you knew he could exert that gratitude 
in no other returns but esteem and love. For which 
must I first thank you ? For what you have denied your- 
self, or for what you have bestowed on me ? 

I owe to you that for my sake you have overlooked the 
prospect of living in pomp and plenty, and I have not 
been circumspect enough to preserve you from care and 
sorrow. I will not dwell upon this particular; you are 
so good a wife, that I know you think I rob you of more 
than I can give, when I say anything in your favor to my 
own disadvantage. 

Whoever should see or hear you, would think it were 
worth leaving all the world for you; while I, habitually 
possessed of that happiness, have been throwing away 
impotent endeavors for the rest of mankind, to the neg- 
lect of her for whom any other man in his senses would 
be apt to sacrifice everything else. 

I know not by what unreasonable prepossession it is. 


SIR RICHARD STEELE. 


183 


but methinks there must be something austere to give 
authority to wisdom; and I cannot account for having 
only rallied many seasonable sentiments of yours, but 
that you are too beautiful to appear judicious. 

One may grow fond, but not wise, from what is said 
by so lovely a counsellor. Hard fate, that you have 
been lessened by your perfections, and lost power by 
your charms ! 

That ingenuous spirit in all your behavior, that familiar 
grace in your words and actions, has for this seven years 
only inspired admiration and love; but experience has 
taught me the best counsel I ever have received has been 
pronounced by the fairest and softest bps, and convinced 
me that I am in you blest with a wise friend, as well as a 
charming mistress. 

Your mind shall no longer suffer by your person, nor 
shall your eyes for the future dazzle me into a blindness 
towards your understanding. I rejoice in this public 
occasion to show my esteem for you, and must do you 
the justice to say that there can be no virtue represented 
in all this collection for the female world which I have 
not known you exert, as far as the opportunities of your 
fortune has given you leave. Forgive me that my heart 
overflows with love and gratitude for daily instances of 
your prudent economy, the just disposition you make of 
your little affairs, your cheerfulness in dispatch of them, 
your prudent forbearance of any reflections that they 
might have needed less vigilance had you disposed of 
your fortune suitably; in short, for all the arguments you 
every day give me of a generous and sincere affection. 

It is impossible for me to look back on many evils and 
pains which I have suffered since we came together, with- 
out a pleasure which is not to be expressed, from the 
proofs I have had, in those circumstances, of your un- 
wearied goodness. How often has your tenderness re- 
moved pain from my sick head ! how often anguish from 
my afflicted heart ! With how skillful patience have I 
known you comply with the vain projects which pain has 
suggested to have an aching limb removed by journeying 
from one side of a room to another ! how often, the next 
instant, travelled the same ground again, without telling 
your patient it was to no purpose to change his situation ! 


184 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


If there are such beings as guardian angels, thus are they 
employed. I will no more believe one of them more good 
in its inclinations, than I can conceive it more charming 
in its form, than my wife. 

But I offend, and forget that what I say to you is to 
appear in public. You are so great a lover of home, that 
I know it will be irksome to you to go into the world 
even in an applause. I will end this without so much as 
mentioning your little flock, or your own amiable figure 
at the head of it. That I think them preferable to all 
other children, I know is the effect of passion and in- 
stinct. That I believe you the best of wives, I know 
proceeds from experience and reason. 

I am, Madam, 

Your most obliged husband, 

And most obedient, humble servant, 

Kich. Steele. 


VHL 


April 22nd, 1717. 

My Dear Prue: — I have yours, which is full of good 
sense, and shows in you a true greatness of mind. But 
at the same time that, according to your advice, I shun 
all engagements which may ensnare my integrity, I am 
to seek all occasions of profit that are consistent with it. 
Little Molly, who is in the house with me, is a constant 
dun to get money; for it gives my imagination the^ 
severest wound when I consider that she, or any of my 
innocents, with nothing but their mere innocence to plead 
for them, should be exposed to that world, w T hich would 
not so much as repair the losses and sufferings of their 
poor father, after all his zeal and supererogatory service. 
You say well, “ I will be well for them to have it to say 
their father kept his integrity;” but if they say at the 
same instant, he left us competent estates, it will be so 
far from lessening, that it will advance his character 
But I shall not spend much time to convince you that it 


SIR RICHARD STEELE. 185 

is a good thing to get money, but solemnly promise you I 
will no more omit any fair opportunity of doing it. 

You writ to me some time ago to order you a news- 
paper; I have done so, and the letter from the Secretary’s 
office also will come every post to you. 

The scene of business will be very warm at the next 
session; but my lesson is so short (that of following my 
conscience), that I shall go through the storm without 
losing a wink of sleep. I have told you, in a former 
letter, that ever since you went I have been almost as 
great a cripple as your dear mother was; and, indeed, I 
recover mighty slowly. I take your advice of temper- 
ance; and am, with my whole heart, 

Yours forever. 


IX. 


June 20th, 1717. 

Dear Prue: — I have yours of the 14th, and am infi- 
nitely obliged to you for the length of it. I do not know 
another whom I could commend for that circumstance ; 
but where we entirely love, the continuance of anything 
they do to please us is a pleasure. As for your relations; 
once for all, pray take it for granted, that my regard and 
conduct towards all and singular of them shall be as you 
direct. 

I hope, by the grace of God, to continue what you wish 
me, every way an honest man. My wife and my children 
are the objects that have wholly taken up my heart; and 
as I am not invited or encouraged in anything which re- 
gards the public, I am easy under that neglect or envy of 
my past actions, and cheerfully contract that diffusive 
spirit within the interests of my own family. You are 
the head of us; and I stoop to a female reign, as being 
naturally made the slave of beauty. But, to prepare for 
our manner of living when we are again together, give 
me leave to say, while I am here at leisure, and come to 
lie at Chelsea, what I think may contribute to our better 


186 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


way of living. I very much approve Mrs. Evans and her 
husband, and, if you take my advice, I would have them 
have a being in our house, and Mrs. Clark the care and 
inspection of the nursery. I would have you entirely at 
leisure, to pass your time with me, in diversions, in books, 
in entertainments, and no manner of business intrude 
upon us but at stated times; for, though you are made to 
be the delight of my eyes, and food of all my senses and 
faculties, yet a turn of care and housewifery, and I know 
not what prepossession against conversation-pleasures 
robs me of the witty and the handsome woman, to £ 
degree not to be expressed. I will work my brains and 
fingers to procure us plenty of all things, and demand 
nothing of you but to take delight in agreeable dresses, 
cheerful discourses, and gay sights, attended by me. 
This may be done by putting the kitchen and the nursery 
in the hands I propose; and I shall have nothing to do 
but to pass as much time at home as I possibly can in the 
best company in the world. We cannot tell here what to 
think of the trial of my Lord Oxford; if the Ministry 
are in earnest in that, and I should see it will be ex- 
tended to a length of time, I will leave them to them- 
selves, and wait upon you. 

Miss Moll grows a mighty beauty, and she shall be very 
prettily dressed, as likewise shall Betty and Eugene; and, 
if I throw away a little money in adorning my brats, I 
hope you will forgive me. They are, I thank G-od, all 
very well; and the charming form of their mother has 
tempered the likeness they bear to their rough sire, who 
is, with the greatest fondness, 

Your most obliged and most obedient husband 

Rich. Steele. 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


What lady’s that to whom he justly bends ? 

Who knows not her ! Ah, those are Wortley’s eyes , 

How art thou honored, remembered with her friends— 

For she distinguishes the good and wise ! 

John Gat. 

“ Keep my letters, they will be as good ^s Madame de 
Sevigne’s forty years hence.” Thus wrote Lady Mon- 
tagu in a consciousness, which the opinion of a century 
has confirmed, that she was herself one of the best letter- 
writers in the English language. Lady Mary Pierrepont 
the eldest daughter of Evelyn, Duke of Kingston, was 
bom in 1690. Under the same preceptors as her brother, 
she acquired a classical education, and her studies were 
subsequently superintended by Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of 
Salisbury. In July, 1710, she sends to the Bishop the 
manuscript of her translation of ‘ Epictetus/ — “ the work 
of one week of my solitude.” A little later she meets 
Wortley Montagu, who in due course of time wins her 
affection and asks her hand in marriage ; but is refused 
by the proud Duke, he “ having no inclination to see his 
grandchildren beggars.” He wishes his daughter to 
marry a wealthy suitor ; she refuses, and so the battle 
begins. The Duke threatens to send her to a remote 
part of the country, and at his death to leave her the 
most moderate annuity. While the lovers contrive to 
carry on a constant correspondence, the father pro- 
ceeds with the marriage arrangements, on the supposi- 


188 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


tion that his threats will induce her to yield. Settle- 
ments were drawn for Lord Dorchester to sign ; wedding 
clothes were bought, and all arrangements made for the 
approaching ceremonies. The lovers were also consum- 
mating their plans. She writes : “ I tremble for what we 
are doing. Are you sure you shall love me forever? 
Shall we never repent ?” She is well aware she will 
exasperate her family to the highest degree, neverthe- 
less, “ I will be only yours, and I will do what you please.” 
Again she writes, “ Reflect now for the last time in what 
manner you must take me. I shall come to you with 
only a nightgown and petticoat, and that is all you will 
get by me.” Just before the day appointed by the Duke 
for his daughter’s marriage with Lord Dorchester, she 
left her father’s house, and on August 12, 1712, was pri- 
vately married by special license to her lover and corres- 
pondent, Edward Wortley Montagu. He was the same 
year elected to parliament, and his wife soon became, 
through her wit and beauty, at once a chief ornament of 
London society, and a flattered friend of Addison, Pope, 
and other men of letters. The latter became her enthu- 
siastic admirer, as is evinced by the passionate letters he 
addressed to her. In the year 1716, she went abroad 
with her husband who had been appointed ambassador 
to Constantinople. Her two years’ residence in the East 
produced her celebrated ‘Letters,’ abounding both in 
liveliness and observations, and are deservedly ranked 
among the very best things of their kind. On her return 
she succeeded, (not, however, without encountering the 
most bitter opposition,) in introducing the practice of 
inoculation for small-pox, to which, seeing it in Turkey, 
she had submitted her own son. She wrote verses for 
many years, and continued to keep up her intimacy with 
literary men ; but she quarreled with Pope, and was 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


189 


pilloried by him in some of his bitterest stanzas. After 
an absence of two and twenty years on the continent, 
residing chiefly near Venice, she returned to England in 
October, 1761, and died on the 21st of August, in the 
year following. Her daughter, to whom many of her 
letters are addressed, married George the Third’s favor- 
ite minister, the Earl of Bute. 


L 

LADY MARY PIERREPONT TO E. W. MONTAGU. 

No DATE. 

Perhaps you’ll be surprised at this letter : I have had 
many debates with myself before I could resolve upon it. 
I know it is not acting in form, but I do not look upon 
you as I do upon the rest of the world, and by what I do 
for you, you are not to judge of my manner of acting 
with others. You are brother to a woman I tenderly 
loved, my protestations of friendship are not like other 
people’s. I never speak but what I mean, and when I 
say I love, ’tis for ever. I had that real concern for Mrs. 
"VVortley, I look with some regard on everyone that is re- 
lated to her. This and my long acquaintance with you 
may in some measure excuse what I am doing. I am 
surprised at one of the Tatlers you send me ; is it possi- 
ble to have any sort of esteem for a person one believes 
capable of having such trifling inclinations ? Mr. Bicker- 
staff has very wrong notions of our sex. I can say there 
are some of us that despise charms of show, and all the 
pageantry of greatness, perhaps with more ease than any 
of the philosophers. In contemning the world they seem 
to take pains to contemn it ; we despise it without taking 
the pains to read lessons of morality to make us do it. 
At least I know I have always looked upon it with con- 
tempt, without being at the expense of one serious reflec- 
tion to oblige me to it. I carry the matter yet further ; 
was I to choose of 2000/. a-year or twenty thousand, the 
first would be my choice. There is something of an una- 


190 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


voidable embarras in making what is called a great figure 
in the world ; (it) takes off from the happiness of life ; I 
hate the noise and hurry inseparable from great estates 
and titles, and look upon both as blessings which ought 
only to be given to fools, for ’tis only to them that they 
are blessings. The pretty fellows you speak of I own 
entertain me sometimes, but it is impossible to be diver- # 
ted with what one despises. I can laugh at a puppet- 
show, and at the same time know there is nothing in it 
worth my attention or regard. General notions are gene- 
rally wrong. Ignorance and folly are thought the best 
foundations for virtue, as if not knowing what a good 
wife is, was necessary to make one so. I confess that 
never can be my way of reasoning ; as I always forgive 
an injury when I think it not done out of malice, I can 
never think myself obliged by what is done without de- 
sign. Give me leave to say it (I know it sounds vain), I 
know how to make a man of sense happy ; but then that 
man must resolve to contribute something towards it 
himself. I have so much esteem for you, I should be 
very sorry to hear you was unhappy ; but for the world I 
would not be the instrument of making you so, which (of 
the humors you are) is hardly to be avoided if I am your 
wife. You distrust me — I can neither be easy or loved 
where I am distrusted. Nor do I believe your passion 
for me is what you pretend it ; at least I am sure, was I 
in love, I could not talk as you do. Few women would 
have wrote so plain as I have done ; but to dissemble is 
among the things I never do. I take more pains to ap- 
prove my conduct to myself than to the world, and would 
not have to accuse myself of a minute’s deceit. I wish I 
loved you enough to devote myself to be forever misera- 
ble, for the pleasure of a day or two’s happiness. I 
cannot resolve upon it. You must think otherwise of me, 
or not at all. 

I don’t enjoin you to burn this letter, I know you will. 
’Tis the first I ever wrote to one of your sex, and shall be 
the last. You may never expect another, I resolve against 
all correspondence of the kind ; my resolutions are sel~ 
dom made, and never broken. 

To Mr. Edward Wortley Montagu, at Wortley, 
near Sheffield, Yorkshire. 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


191 


n. 

Reading over your letter as fast as ever I could, and 
answering it with the same ridiculous precipitation, I find 
one part of it escaped my sight, and the other I mistook 
in several places. Yours was dated the 10th of August ; 
it came not hither till the 20th : you say something of a 
packet-boat, etc., which makes me uncertain whether 
you’ll received my letter, and frets me heartily. Kindness, 
you say, would be your destruction. In my opinion this 
is something contradictory to some other expressions. 
People talk of being in love just as widows do of afflic- 
tion. Mr. Steele has observed in one of his plays, “ that 
the most passionate among them have always calmness 
enough to drive a hard bargain with the upholders.” I 
never knew a lover that would not willingly secure his 
interest, as well as his mistress ; or if one must be aban- 
doned, had not the prudence (among all his distractions) 
to consider that a woman was but a woman, and money 
was a thing of more real merit than the whole sex put 
together. Your letter is to tell me you should think 
yourself undone if you married me, but if I would be so 
tender as to confess I should break my heart if you did 
not, then you’d consider whether you would or no ; but 
yet you hoped you should not. I take this to be the 
right interpretation of — even your kindness can’t destroy 
me of a sudden — I hope I am not in your power — I 
would give a good deal to be satisfied, etc. 

As to writing — that any woman would do who thought 
she writ well. Now I say, no woman of common good 
sense would. At best, ’tis but doing a silly thing well, 
and I think it is much better not to do a silly thing at 
all. You compare it to dressing. Suppose the com- 
parison just : — perhaps the Spanish dress would become 
my face very well ; yet the whole town would condemn 
me for the highest extravagance if I went to court in it, 
though it improved me to a miracle. There are thousand 
things, not ill in themselves, which custom makes unfit 
to be done. This is to convince you that I am so far 
from applauding my own conduct, my conscience flies in 
my face every time I think on’t. The generality of the 


192 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


world have a great indulgence to their own follies : 
without being a jot wiser than my neighbors, I have the 
peculiar misfortune to know and condemn all the wrong 
things I do. 

You beg to know whether I would not be out of humor, 
The expression is modest enough, but that is not what 
you mean. In saying I could be easy, I have already 
said I should not be out of humor ; but you would have 
me say I am violently in love ; that is, finding you think 
better of me than you desire, you would have me give 
you a just cause to contemn me. I doubt much whether 
there is a creature in the world humble enough to do 
that. I should not think you more unreasonable if you 
were in love with my face, and asked me to disfigure it to 
make you easy. I have heard 'of some nuns that made 
use of that expedient to secure their own happiness, but 
amongst all the popish saints and martyrs I never read 
of one whose charity was sublime enough to make them- 
selves deformed, or ridiculous, to restore their lovers to 
peace and quietness. In short, if nothing can content 
you, but despising me heartily, I am afraid I shall be al- 
ways so barbarous as to wish you may esteem me as long 
as you live. 

M. P. 


ILL 

I thought to return no answer to your letter, but I find 
I am not so wise as I thought myself. I cannot forbear 
fixing my mind a little on that expression, though perhaps 
the only insincere one in your whole letter, — I would die 
to be secure of your heart, though but for a moment. 
Were this true, what is there I would not do to secure 
you? 

I will state the case to you as plainly as I can, and then 
ask yourself if you use me well. I have shewed, in every 
action of my life, an esteem for you that at least challen- 
ges a grateful regard. I have trusted my reputation in 
your hands, I have made no scruple of giving you, under 


LADY MARY WOETLEY MONTAGU. 


193 


my own hand, an assurance of my friendship. After all 
this, I exact nothing from you : if you find it incon- 
renient for your affairs to take so small a fortune, I de- 
sire you to sacrifice nothing to me ; I pretend no tie upon 
your honor ; but in recompense for so clear and so dis- 
interested a proceeding, must I ever receive injuries and 
ill usage ? 

I have not the usual pride of my sex ; I can bear being 
told I am in the wrong, but tell it me gently. Perhaps I 
have been indiscreet. I came young into the hurry of 
the world — a great innocence and an undesigning gaiety 
may possibly have been construed coquetry, and a desire 
of being followed, though never meant by me. I cannot 
answer for the observations that may be made on me : 
all who are malicious attack the careless and defenceless. 
I own myself to be both. I know not anything I can say 
more to show my perfect desire of pleasing you and 
making you easy, than to proffer to be confined with 
you in what manner you pleased. Would any woman 
but me renounce all the world for one ? or would any 
man but you be insensible of such a proof of sincerity ? 

M. P. 


IV. 

I have this minute received your two letters. I know 
not how to direct to you, whether to London or the 
country ; or if in the country to Durham or Wortley. 
’Tis very likely you’ll never receive this. I hazard a 
great deal if it falls into other hands, and I wrote for all 
that. I wish with all my soul I thought as you do. I 
endeavor to convince myself by your arguments, and am 
sorry my reason is so obstinate, not to be deluded into 
an opinion that ’tis impossible a man can esteem a 
woman. I suppose I should then be very easy at your 
thoughts of me. I should thank you for the wit and 
beauty you give me, and not be angry at the follies and 
weaknesses ; but to my infinite affection I can believe 


194 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


neither one nor t’other. One part of my character is 
not so good, nor t’other so bad as you fancy it. Should 
we ever live together, you would be disappointed both 
ways ; you would find an easy quality of temper you do 
not expect, and a thousand faults you do not imagine. 
You think if you married me I should be passionately 
fond of you one month, and of somebody else the next ; 
neither would happen. I can esteem, I can be a friend, 
but I don’t know whether I can love. Expect all that is 
complaisant and easy, but never what is fond, in me. 
You judge very wrong of my heart when you suppose me 
capable of views of interest, and that anything could 
oblige me to flatter anybody. Was I the most indigent 
creature in the world, I should answer you as I do now, 
without adding or diminishing. I am incapable of art, 
and ’tis because I will not be capable of it. Could I 
deceive one minute, I should never regain my own good 
opinion ; and who could bear to live with one they 
despised ? 

If you can resolve to live with a companion that will 
have all the deference due to your superiority of good 
sense, and that your proposals can be agreeable to those 
on whom I depend, I have nothing to say against them. 

As to travelling, ’tis what I should do with great 
pleasure, and could easily quit London upon your 
account ; but a retirement in the country is not so 
disagreeable to me, as I know a few months would make 
it tiresome to you. Where people are tied for life, ’tis 
their mutual interest not to grow weary of one another. 
If I had all the personal charms that I want, a face is too 
slight a foundation for happiness. You would soon be 
tired with seeing every day the same thing. Where you 
saw nothing else you would have leisure to remark all 
the defects, which would increase in proportion as the 
novelty lessened, which is always a great charm. I 
should have the displeasure of seeing a coldness, which, 
though I could not reasonably blame you for, being 
involuntary, yet it would render me uneasy, and the 
more because I know a love may be revived, which ab- 
sence, inconstancy, or even infidelity has extinguished, 
but there is no returning from a degout given by satiety. 

I should not choose to live in a crowd : I could be 


LADY MABY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


195 


very well pleased to be in London without making a great 
figure, or seeing above eight or nine agreeable people. 
Apartments, table, etc., are things that never come into 
my head. But I will never think of anything without 
the consent of my family, and advise you not to fancy a 
happiness in entire solitude, which you would find only 
fancy. 

Make no answer to this if you can like me on my own 
terms, ’tis not to me you must make the proposals ; if 
not, to what purpose is our correspondence ? 

However, preserve me your friendship, which I think 
of with a great deal of pleasure and some vanity. If 
ever you see me married, I flatter myself you’ll see a con- 
duct you would not be sorry your wife should imitate. 

M. P. 


Y. 

Indeed, I do not at all wonder that absence and variety 
of new faces should make you forget me : but I am a 
little surprised at your curiosity to know what passes in 
my heart (a thing wholly insignificant to you), except 
you propose to yourself a piece of ill-natured satisfaction 
in finding me very much disquieted. Pray which way 
would you see into my heart ? You can frame no 
guesses about it either from my speaking or writing, and 
supposing I should attempt to show it you, I know no 
other way. I begin to be tired of my humility ; I have 
carried my complaisances to you farther than I ought ; 
you make new scruples ; you have a great deal of fancy, 
and your distrusts, being all of your own making, are 
more immovable than if there were some real ground for 
them. Our aunts and grandmothers always tell us that 
men are sort of animals, that if ever they are constant 
’tis only where they are ill-used. ’Twas a kind of para- 
dox I could never believe ; experience has taught me 
the truth of it. You are the first I ever had a corres- 
pondence with, and I thank God I have done with it for 
all my life. You needed not to have told me you are not 
what you have been, one must be stupid not to find a 


196 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


difference in your letters. You seem in one part of your 
last to excuse yourself from having done me any injury 
in point of fortune. Do I accuse you of any ? 

I have not spirits to dispute any longer with you. 
You say you are not yet determined, let me determine 
for you, and save you the trouble of writing again. Adieu 
for ever. Make no answer. I wish, among the variety 
of acquaintance, you may find some one to please you : 
and can’t help the vanity of thinking, should you try 
them all, you won’t find one that will be so sincere in 
their treatment, though a thousand more deserving and 
every one happier. ’Tis a piece of vanity and injustice I 
never forgive in a woman, to delight to give pain, what 
must I think of a man that takes pleasure in making me 
uneasy ? After the folly of letting you know it is in your 
power, I ought in prudence to let this go no farther, 
except I thought you had good nature enough never to 
make use of that power. I have no reason to think so ; 
however, I am willing, you see, to do you the highest 
obligation ’tis possible for me to do — that is, to give you 
a fair occasion of being rid of me. 

M. P. 


VI. 


29th March. 

Though your letter is far from what I expected, having 
once promised to answer it with the sincere account of 
my inmost thoughts, I am resolved you shall not find me 
worse than my word, which is (whatever you may think) 
inviolable. 

’Tis no affectation to say that I despise the pleasure of 
pleasing people whom I despise; all the fine equipages 
that shine in the ring never gave me another thought, 
than either pity or contempt for the owners, that could 
place happiness in attracting the eyes of strangers. 
Nothing touches me with satisfaction but what touches 
my heart, and I should find more pleasure in the secret 
joy I should feel, at a kind expression from a friend I es- 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


19 ? 


teemed, Ilian at the admiration of a whole playhouse, or 
the envy of those of my own sex who could not attain to 
the same number of jewels, fine clothes, etc., supposing I 
was at the very summit of this sort of happiness. 

You may be this friend if you please: did you really 
esteem me, had you any tender regard for me, I could, I 
think, pass my life in any station, happier with you, than 
in all the grandeur of the world with any other. You 
have some humors that would be disagreeable to any 
woman that married with an intention of finding her 
happiness abroad. That is not my resolution. If I 
marry, I propose to myself a retirement; there are few of 
my acquaintances I should ever wish to see again, and 
the pleasing one and only one, is the way in which I de- 
sign to please myself. Happiness is the natural design 
of all the world, and everything we see done is meant in 
order to attain it. My imagination places it in friend- 
ship. By friendship I mean an entire communication of 
thoughts, wishes, interests and pleasures, being undivided, 
a mutual esteem which naturally carries with it a pleas- 
ing sweetness of conversation, and terminates in the de- 
sire of making one or another happy, without being 
forced to run into visits, noise, and hurry, which serve 
rather to trouble than compose the thoughts of any 
reasonable creature. There are few capable of a friend- 
ship such as I have described, and Tis necessary for the 
generality of the world to be taken up with trifles. Carry 
a fine lady or a fine gentleman out of town and they know 
no more what to say. To take from them plays, operas, 
and fashions, is taking away all their topics of discourse, 
and they know not how to form their thoughts on any 
other subjects. They know very well what it is to be 
admired, but are perfectly ignorant of what it is to be 
loved. I take you to have sense enough, not to think 
this science romantic: I rather choose to use the word 
friendship than love, because in the general sense that 
word is spoke, it signifies a passion rather founded on 
passion than reason, and when I say friendship I mean a 
mixture of friendship and esteem, and which a long ac- 
quaintance increases, not decays; how far I deserve such 
a friendship, I can be no judge of myself; I may want 
the good sense that is necessary to be agreeable to a man 


198 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


of merit, but I know I want the vanity to believe I bave, 
and can promise yon shall never like me less upon know- 
ing me better, and that I never forget that yon have a 
better understanding than myself. And now let me en- 
treat yon to think (if possible) tolerably of my modesty 
after so bold a declaration. I am resolved to throw off 
reserve, and nse me ill if yon please. I am sensible to 
own an inclination for a man is putting one's self wholly 
in his power; but sure yon have generosity enough not 
to abuse it. After all I have said, I pretend no tie but 
on your heart; if you do not love me, I shall not be 
happy with you; if you do, I need add no farther, I am 
not mercenary, and would not receive an obligation that 
comes not from one who loves me. 

I do not desire my letter back again : you have honor, 
and I dare trust you. I am going to the same place I 
went last spring. I shall think of you there, it depends 
upon you in what manner. 

M. P. 


Y3X 

E. W. MONTAGU TO LADY MARY PIERREPONT. 

Saturday Morning. 

Every time you see me gives me a fresh proof of your 
not caring for me, yet I beg you will meet me once more. 
How could you pay me that great compliment of your 
loving the country for life, when you would not stay with 
me a few minutes longer. Who is the happy man you 
went to ? I agree with you I am often so dull I cannot 
explain my meaning; but will not own that the expression 
was so very obscure when I said if I had you I should 
act against my opinion. Why need I add, I see what is 
best for me, I condemn what I do, and yet I fear I must 
do it. If you can’t find it out, that you are going to be 
unhappy, ask your sister, who agrees with you in every- 
thing else, and she will convince you of your rashness in 
this. She knows you don’t care for me, and that you will 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


190 


like me less and less every year, perhaps every day of 
your life. You may with a little care please another as 
well, and make him less timorous. It is possible that I 
too may please, some of those that have but little ac- 
quaintance; and if I should be preferred by a woman for 
being the first among her companions, it would give me 
as much pleasure as if I were the first man in the world. 
Think again, and prevent a misfortune from falling on 
both of us. 

When you are at leisure, I shall be as ready to end all 
as I was last night, when I disobliged one that will do me 
hurt, by crossing his desires, rather than fail of meeting 
you. Had I imagined you could have left me without 
finishing, I had not seen you. Now you have been so 
free before Mrs. Steele,* you may call upon her, or send 
for her, to-morrow or next day. Let her dine with you 
or go to visit shops, Hy de-park, or other diversions. You 
may bring her home; I can be in the house reading, as I 
often am, though the master is abroad. If you will have 
her visit you first, I will get her to go to-morrow: I think 
a man or woman is under no engagements till the writings 
are sealed, but it looks like indiscretion even to begin a 
treaty without a probability of concluding it. When you 
hear all my objections to you, and to myself, you will re- 
solve against me. Last night you were much upon the 
reserve; I see you can never be thoroughly intimate with 
me — ’tis because you have no pleasure in it. You can 
be easy and complaisant, as you have sometimes told me; 
but never think that enough to make me easy unless you 
refuse me. Write a line this evening, or early to-morrow. 
If I don’t speak plain, do you understand what I write ? 
Tell me how to mend the style, if the fault is in that. If 
the characters are not plain I can easily mend them. I 
always comprehend your expressions, but would give a 
great deal to know what passes in your heart. 

In you I might possess youth, beauty, and all things 
that can charm. It is possible that they may strike me 
less after a time, but I may then consider that I have 
once enjoyed them in perfection; that they would have 


* The wife of Mr. (afterwards Sir Richard) Steele. 


200 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


decayed as soon in any other. You see this is not your 
case. You will think you might have been happier. 
Never engage with a man unless you propose to yourself 
the highest satisfaction from him and none other. 

E. W. Montagu. 


YHL 

LADY MARY PIERREPONT TO E. W. MONTAGU. 

Tuesday Night. 

I received both your Monday letters before I writ the 
inclosed, which, however, I send you. The kind letter 
was writ and sent Friday morning, and I did not receive 
yours till Saturday noon. To speak truth, you would 
never have had it — there were so many things in yours 
to put me out of humor. Thus you see it was on no de- 
sign to repair anything that offended you. You only 
show me how industrious you are to find faults in me; 
why will you not suffer me to be pleased with you ? I 
would see you if I could (though perhaps it may be 
wrong,) but in the way that I am here ’tis impossible. I 
can’t come to town but in company with my sister-in-law; 
I can carry her nowhere but where she pleases; or if I 
could I would trust her with nothing. I could not walk 
out alone without giving suspicion to the whole family; 
should I be watched, and seen to meet a man, judge of 
the consequences. 

You speak of treating with my father, as if you believed 
he would come to terms afterwards. I will not suffer you 
to remain in the thought, however advantageous it might 
be to me. I will deceive you in nothing. I am fully per- 
suaded he will never hear of terms afterwards. You may 
say ’tis talking oddly of him. I can’t answer to that, but 
’tis my real opinion, and I think I know him. You talk 
to me of estates as if I was the most interested woman in 
the world. Whatever faults I may have shown in my life, 
X know not one action of it that proved me mercenary. 


LADY MARY WoRTLEY MONTAGU. 


201 


I think there cannot be a greater proof to the contrary 
than my treating with you, where I am to depend entirely 
upon your generosity. At the same time that I may 
have settled upon me £500 per annum pin-money, and a 
considerable jointure in another place; not to reckon that 
I may have by his temper what command of his estate I 
please, and with you I have nothing to pretend to. I do 
not, however, make a merit to you; money is very little 
to me; because all beyond necessaries I do not value, that 
is to be purchased by it. If the man proposed to me had 
£10,000 per annum, and I was sure to dispose of it all, I 
should act just as I do. I have in my life known a good 
deal of show, and never found myself the happier for it. 

In proposing to you to follow the scheme proposed by 
that friend, I think ’tis absolutely necessary for both our 
sakes. I would have you want no pleasure which a single 
life would afford you. You own you think nothing so 
agreeable. A woman that adds nothing to a man’s for- 
tune ought not to take from his happiness. If possi- 
ble I would add to it; but I will not take from you any 
satisfaction you could enjoy without me. On my own 
side I endeavor to form as right a judgment of the temper 
of human nature, and of my own in particular, as I am 
capable of. I would throw off all partiality and passion, 
and be calm in my opinion. Almost all people are apt 
to run into a mistake, that when they once feel or give a 
passion, there needs nothing to entertain it. The mis- 
take makes, in the number of women that inspire even 
violent passions, hardly one preserve one after possession 
If we marry, our happiness must consist in loving one. 
another; ’tis principally my concern to think of the most 
probable method of making that love eternal. You ob- 
ject against living in London; I am not fond of it myself, 
and readily give it up to you, though I am assured there 
needs more art to keep a fondness alive in solitude, where 
it generally preys upon itself. There is one article abso- 
lutely necessary — to be ever beloved, one must be ever 
agreeable. There is no such thing as being agreeable 
without a thorough good humor, a natural sweetness of 
temper, enlightened by cheerfulness. Whatever natural 
funds of gaiety one is born with, ’tis necessary to be en- 
tertained with agreeable objects. Anybody capable of 


202 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


tasting pleasure, when they confine themselves to one 
place, should take care ’tis the place in the world most 
agreeable. Whatever you may now think (now, perhaps, 
you have some fondness for me, ) though your love should 
continue in its full force, there are hours when the most 
beloved mistress would be troublesome. People are not 
forever (nor is it in human nature that they should be) 
disposed to be fond; you would be glad to find in me the 
friend and the companion. To be agreeably the last, it 
is necessary to be gay and entertaining. A perpetual 
solitude in a place where you see nothing to raise your 
spirits, at length wears them out, and conversation in- 
sensibly falls into the dull and insipid. When I have no 
more to say to you, you will like me no longer. How 
dreadful is that view ! You will reflect for my sake you 
have abandoned the conversation of a friend that you 
liked, and your situation in a country where all things 
would have contributed to make your life pass in (the 
true volupte) a smooth tranquillity. I shall lose the vi- 
vacity which should entertain you, and you will have 
nothing to recompense you for what you have lost. Very 
few people that have settled entirely in the country but 
have grown at length weary of one another. 

The lady’s conversation generally falls into a thousand 
impertinent effects of idleness ; and the gentleman falls 
in love with his dogs and horses, and out of love with 
everything else. I am not now arguing in favor of the 
town ; you have answered me as to that point. In 
respect of your health, ’tis the first thing to be considered, 
and I shall never ask you to do anything injurious to 
that. But ’tis my opinion, ’tis necessary, to be happy, 
that we neither of us think any place more agreeable than 
that where we are. I have nothing to do in London, and 
’tis indifferent to me if I never see it more. I know not 
how to answer your mentioning gallantry, nor in what 
sense to understand you ; whoever I marry, when I am 
married I renounce all things of the kind. I am willing 
to abandon all conversation but yours. I will part with 
anything for you, but you. I wifi not have you a month, 
to lose you the rest of my life. If you can pursue the 
plan of happiness begun with your friend, and take me 
for that friend, I am ever yours. I have examined my 


LADY MAR¥ WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


203 


own heart whether I can leave everything for you. I 
think I can ; if I change my mind you shall know before 
Sunday ; after that I will not change my mind. If ’tis 
necessary for your affairs to stay in England, to assist 
your father in his business, as I suppose the time will be 
short, I would be as little injurious to your fortune as I 
can, and I will do it. But I am still of opinion nothing 
is so likely to make us both happy, as what I propose. I 
foresee I may break with you on this point, and I shall 
be certainly displeased with myself for it, and wish a 
thousand times that I had done whatever you pleased ; 
but however, I hope [ shall always remember how much 
more miserable than anything else would make me, should 
I be, to live with you, and please you no longer. You 
can be pleased with nothing, when you are not pleased 
with your wife. One of the Spectators is very just, that 
says, a man ought always to be upon his guard against 
spleen, and a too severe philosophy; a woman against 
coquetry and levity. If we go to Naples I will make no 
acquaintances there of any kind; and you will be in a 
place where a variety of agreeable objects will dispose 
you to be ever pleased. If such a thing is possible, this 
will secure our everlasting happiness; and I am ready to 
wait on you without leaving a thought behind me. 


IX. 

I am going to write you a plain long letter. What I 
have already told you is nothing but the truth. I have 
no reason to believe that I am going to be otherwise con- 
fined than by my duty; but I that know my own mind, 
know that is enough to make me miserable. I see all the 
misfortune of marrying where it is impossible to love. I am 
going to confess a weakness that may perhaps add to your 
contempt of me. I wanted courage to resist at first the 
will of my relations; but as every day added to my fears, 
those at last grew strong enough to make me venture the 
disobliging them. A harsh word always damps my spirits 


204 


LOVE IN LEGLESS. 


to a degree of silencing all I have to say. I knew the 
folly of my own temper, and took the method of writing 
to the disposer of me. I said everything in this letter I 
thought proper to move him, and proffered, in atonement 
for not marrying whom he would, never to marry at all. 
He did not think fit to answer this letter, but sent for me 
to him. He told me he was very much surprised that I 
did not depend on his judgment for my future happi- 
ness; that he knew nothing I had to complain of, etc.; 
that he did not doubt I had some other fancy in my head, 
which encouraged me to this disobedience; but he as- 
sured me if I refused a settlement he had provided for 
me, he gave me his word, whatever proposals were made 
him, he would never so much as enter into a treaty with 
any other; that if I founded any hopes on his death, I 
should find myself mistaken: he never intended to leave 
me anything but an annuity of 400Z. per annum ; that 
though another would proceed in this manner, after I had 
given so just a pretence for it, yet he had the goodness 
to leave my destiny yet in my own choice, and at the 
same time commanded me to communicate my design to 
my relations, and ask their advice. As hard as this may 
Sound, it did not shock my resolution : I was pleased to 
think, at any price, I had it in my power to be free from 
a man I hated. I told my intention to all my nearest re- 
lations. I was surprised at their blaming it to the 
greatest degree. I was told they were sorry I would ruin 
myself ; but if I was so unreasonable, they could not 
blame my father, whatever he inflicted on me. I objected 
I did not love him. They made answer, they found no 
necessity for loving; if I lived well with him, that was all 
was required of me; and that if I considered this town, I 
should find very few women in love with their husbands, 
and yet a many happy. It was in vain to dispute with 
such prudent people ; they looked upon me as a little ro- 
mantic, and I found it impossible to persuade them that 
living in London at liberty was not the height of happi- 
ness. However, they could not change my thoughts, 
though I found I was to expect no protection from them. 

When I was to give my final answer to , I told him 

that I preferred a single life to any other, and if he 
pleased to permit me, I would take that resolution. He 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. 


205 


replied, that he could not hinder my resolutions, but I 
should not pretend after that to please him, since pleas- 
ing him was only to be done by obedience; that if I would 
disobey I knew the consequences; he would not fail to 
confine me, where I might repent at leisure; that he had 
also consulted my relations, and found them all agreeing 
in his sentiments. He spoke this in a manner that hindered 
my answering. I retired to my chamber, where I writ a 
letter to let him know my aversion to the man proposed 
was too great to be overcome, that I should be miserable 
beyond all things could be imagined, but I was in his 
hands, and he might dispose of me as he thought fit. He 
was perfectly satisfied with this answer, and proceeded 
as if I had given a willing consent. I ’forget to tell you, 
he named you, and said, if I thought that way, I was 
very much mistaken; that if he had no other engagements, 
yet he would never have agreed to your proposals, having 
no inclination to see his grandchildren beggars. 

I do not speak this to alter your opinion, but to show 
the improbability of his agreeing to it. I confess I am 
entirely of your mind. I reckon it among the absurdities 
of custom that a man must be obliged to settle his estate 
on an eldest son, beyond his power to recall, whatever he 
proves to be, and make himself unable to make happy a 
younger child that may deserve to be so. If I had an es- 
tate myself I should not make such ridiculous settlements; 
and I cannot blame you for being in the right. 

I have told you all my affairs with a plain sincerity. I 
have avoided to move your compassion, and I have said 
nothing of what I suffer; and I have not persuaded you 
to a treaty, which I am sure my family will never agree 
to. I can have no fortune without an entire obedience. 

Whatever your business is, may it end to your entire 
satisfaction. I think of the public as you do ; as little as 
that is a woman’s care, it may be permitted into the 
number of a woman’s fears. But wretched as I am, I 
have no more to fear for myself, I have still a concern for 
my friends. I am in pain for your danger — I am far from 
taking ill what you say, I never valued myself as the 

daughter of ■, and ever despised those that esteemed 

me on that account. With pleasure I could barter all 
that, and change to be any country gentleman’s daughter 


20G 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


that would have reason enough to make happiness in 
privacy. I beg your pardon. You may see by the situa- 
tion of my affairs ’tis without design. 


X. 


Saturday Moening. 

I writ you a letter last night in some passion. I begin 
to fear again ; I own myself a coward. You made no 
reply to one part of my letter, concerning my fortune. I 
am afraid you flatter yourself that my father may be at 
length reconciled, and brought to reasonable terms. I 
am convinced by what I have often heard him say, speak- 
ing of other cases like this, that he never will. The for- 
tune that he has engaged to give with me, was settled , 
on my brother’s marriage, on my sister, and on myself ; 
but in such a manner that it was left in his power to 
give it all to either of us, or divide it as he thought fit. 

He has given it all to me. Nothing remains for my 
sister but the free bounty of my father, from what he can 
save, which, notwithstanding the greatness of his estate, 
may be very little. Possibly after I have disobliged him 
so much he may be glad to have her so easily provided 
for with money already raised, especially if he has a 
design to marry himself, as I hear. I do not speak this 
that you should not endeavor to come to terms with him, 
if you please ; but I am fully persuaded it will be to no 
purpose. He will have a very good answer to make — 
that I suffered the match to proceed — that I made hi m a 
very silly figure in it — that I have let him spend 400/. in 
wedding clothes, all which I saw without saying any- 
thing. When I first pretended to oppose this match, he 
told me he was sure I had some other design in my 
head ; I denied it with truth. But you see how little 
appearance there is of this truth. He proceeded with 
telling me he would never enter into a treaty with 
another man, etc., and that I should be sent immediately 
into the North, to stay there ; and when he died he 


LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGE. 


207 


would only leave me an annuity of 400/. I had not cour- 
age to stand this view, and I submitted to what he 
pleased. He will now object against me, why, since I 
intended to marry in this manner, I did not persist in 
my first resolution, that it would have been as easy for 
me to run away from Thoresby as from hence ; and to 
what purpose did I put him and the gentleman I was to 
marry, to expenses, etc. ? He will have a thousand 
plausible reasons for being irreconcilable, and ’tis only 
probable the world will be on his side. Reflect now for 
the last time in what manner you must take me. I shall 
come to you with only a night-gown and petticoat, and 
that is all you will get by me. I told a lady of my 
friends what I intend to do. You will think her a very 
good friend when I tell you, she proffered to lend us her 
house. I did not accept of this till I let you know it. 
H you think it more convenient to carry me to your lodg- 
ings, make no scruple of it. Let it be where it will : if I 
am your wife, I shall think no place unfit for me where 
you are. I beg we may leave London next morning, 
wherever you intend to go. I should wish to go out of 
England, if it suits your affairs. You are the best judge 
of your father’s temper. If you think it would be 
obliging to him, or necessary for you, I will go with you 
immediately to ask his pardon and his blessing. If that 
is not proper at first, I think the best scheme is going to 
the Spaw. When you come back you may endeavor to 
make your father admit of seeing me, and treat with 
mine (though I persist in believing it will be to no pur- 
pose). But I cannot think of living in the midst of my 
relations and acquaintances after so unjustifiable a step 
— so unjustifiable to the world — but I think I can justify 
myself to myself. I again beg you to have a coach to be 
at the door early Monday morning, to carry us some part 
of our way, wherever you resolve our journey shall be. 

If you determine to go to the lady’s house, you had 
best come with a coach and six, at seven o’clock to-mor- 
row. She and I will be on the balcony, which looks on 
the road \ you have nothing to do put to stop under it, 
and we will come down to you. Ho in this what you 
like, but after all think very seriously. Your letter, 
which will be waited for, is to determine everything. 


208 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


You can show me no goodness I shall not be sensible 
of. However, think again, and resolve never to think of 
me if you have the least doubt, or that it is likely to 
make you uneasy in your fortune. I believe to travel is 
the most likely way to make a solitude agreeable, and 
not tiresome ; remember you have promised it. 

’Tis something odd for a woman that brings nothing 
to expect anything, but after the way of my education I 
dare not pretend to live, but in some degree suitable to 
it. I had rather die than return to a dependency upon 
relations I have disobliged. Save me from that fear if 
you love me. If you cannot, or think that I ought not 
to expect it, be sincere and tell me so. ’Tis better I 
should not be yours at all, than for a short happiness 
involve myself in ages of misery. I hope there will 
never be occasion for this precaution ; but, however, ’tis 
necessary to make it. I depend entirely upon your hon- 
or, and I cannot suspect you of any way doing wrong. 
Do not imagine I shall be angry at anything you can tell 
me. Let it be sincere ; do not impose on a woman that 
leaves all things for you. 


POPE AND LADY MONTAGU. 


Alexander Pope was born in Lombard Street, London, 
May 21st, 1688. He was of a delicate constitution, and 
so much deformed as to have been compared to an inter- 
rogation point. He soon, as he himself tells us, “lisp’d 
in numbers,” and his “Ode to Solitude,” was written 
before he was twelve years old. The poet removed to 
Chiswick, “under the wing of my Lord Burlington,” 
where his father died in 1717. 

Pope became one of Lady Montagu’s most ardent 
admirers, and eventually her bitter and unscrupulous 
foe, degrading himself by indulging in mean and coarse 
abuse of the woman at whose feet he once knelt, conduct 
unworthy of a gentleman. 

No man of honor would insult a woman, certainly not 
the woman that he had once loved. The cause of the 
rupture was long a mystery ; but years afterwards, when 
the grass was growing over both of their graves, it was 
discovered that “at some ill-chosen time, when she least 
expected what romances call a declaration, he made such 
passionate love to her, as, in spite of her utmost endeav- 
ors to be angry and look grave, produced an immoderate 
fit of laughter ; from that moment he became her 
implacable enemy.” The following beautiful lines ad- 
dressed to Gay during Lady Mary’s absence from 
Twickenham, and which Pope after the quarrel endeav- 
ored to suppress, are curious on this account as well as 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


210 

for being the solitary example of amatory verse contained 
in his works. 


Ah, friend ! ’tis true— this truth you lovers know— 
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow ; 

In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes 
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens ; 

Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies, 

And only dwells where Wortley casts her eyes. 
What are the gay parterre, the checkered shade, 

The morning bower, the evening colonnade, 

But soft recesses of uneasy minds, 

To sigh unheard in. to the passing winds ? 

So the struck deer, in some sequester’d part, 

Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart ; 

There stretch’d unseen in coverts hid from day, 
Bleeds drop by drop, and pants his life away. 


He died a few days after completing bis fifty-sixth 
year, and was buried in the church at Twickenham, 
with which place his life was so intimately connected. 


I 

POPE TO LADY MONTAGU. 

You will find me more troublesome than Brutus ever 
did his evil genius. I shall meet you in more places 
than one, and often refresh your memory before you ar- 
rive at Philippi. These shadows of me (my letters) will 
be haunting you from time to time, and putting you in 
mind of the man who has really suffered very much from 
you, and whom you have robbed of the most valuable of 
his enjoyments — your conversation. The advantage of 
hearing your sentiments by discovering mine, was what 
I always thought a great one, and even worth the risk I 
generally run of manifesting my own indiscretion. You 
then rewarded my trust in you the moment it was given, 
for you pleased and informed me the minute you an- 
swered. I must now be contented with more slow 


POPE AND LADY MONTAGU. 


211 


returns. However, it is some pleasure that your 
thoughts upon paper will be a more lasting possession to 
me, and that I shall no longer have cause to complain of 
a loss I have so often regretted, that of anything you said 
which I happened to forget. In earnest, madam, if I 
were to write to you as often as I think of you, it must 
be every day of my life. I attend you in spirit through 
all your ways ; I follow you through every stage in books 
of travels, and fear for you through whole folios — you 
make me shrink at the past dangers of dead travellers. 
And if I read of a delightful prospect or agreeable place, 
I hope it yet subsists to please you. I inquire the roads, 
the amusements, the company oi every town and country 
through which you pass, with as much diligence as if I 
were to set out next week to overtake you. In a word, 
no one can have you more constantly in mind, not even 
your guardian angel (if you have one) ; and I am willing 
to indulge so much Popery as to fancy some being takes 
care of you who knows your value better than you do 
yourseH I am willing to think that Heaven never gave 
so much self-neglect and resolution to a woman to occa- 
sion her calamity, but am pious enough to believe those 
qualities must be intended to conduce to her benefit and 
her glory. 


n. 


The more I examine my own mind, the more romantic 
I find myself. Methinks it is a noble spirit of contradic- 
tion to fate and fortune not to give up those that are 
snatched from us, but follow them with warmer zeal the 
further they are remold from the sense of it. Sure 
flattery never travelled so far as three thousand miles; it 
is now only for truth, which overtakes all things, to reach 
you at this distance. It is a generous piece of Popery 
that pursues even those who are to be eternally absent 
into another world ; let it be right or wrong, the very 


212 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


extravagance is a sort of piety. I cannot be satisfied 
with strewing flowers over you and barely honoring you 
as a thing lost, but must consider you as a glorious 
though remote being, and be sending addresses and 
prayers after you. You have carried away so rnuph of 
my esteem, that what remains of it is daily languishing 
and dying over my acquaintance here ; and I believe in 
three or four months more I shall think Auratbassar as 
good a place as Covent Garden. You may imagine this 
but raillery, but I am really so far gone as to take pleasure 
in reveries of this kind. Let them say I am romantic; so 
is every one said to be that either admires a fine thing or 
praises one ; it is no wonder such people are thought 
mad, for they are as much out of the way of common un- 
derstanding as if they were mad, because they are in the 
right. On my conscience, as the world goes it is never 
worth anybody’s while to do a noble thing for the honor 
of it; glory, the only pay of generous actions, is now as 
ill paid as other just debts are, and neither Mrs. Macfar- 
land for immolating her lover, nor Lady Mary for sacri- 
ficing herself, must hope to be ever compared with Lu- 
cretia or Portia. 

I write this in some anger, for having frequented those 
people most since you went who seemed most in your 
favor, I heard nothing that concerned you talked of so 
often as that you went away in a black full-bottom, which 
I did but assert to be a bob, and was answered, Love is 
blind. I am persuaded your wig had never suffered this 
criticism but on the score of your head, and the two fine 
eyes that are in it. 

For God’s sake, madam, when you write to me talk of 
yourself; there is nothing I so much desire to hear of; 
talk a great deal of yourself, that she, who I always 
thought talked best, may speak upon the best subject. 
The shrines and reliques you tell me of no way engage 
my curiosity. I had ten times rather go on pilgrimage 
to see your face than St. John Baptist’s head. I wish 
you had not only all those fine statues you talk of, but 
even the golden image which Nebuchadnezzar set up, 
provided you were to travel no further than you could 
carry it. 


£OPE AND LADY MONTAGtf 


213 


m. 


Febeuaey 3 , 1717 . 

Madam : — I wish I could write anything to divert you, but 
it is impossible in the very unquiet state I am put into by 
your letter. It has grievously afflicted me, without affec- 
tation, and I think you would hardly have writ it in so 
strong terms had you known to what a degree I feel the 
loss of those I value (it is only decency that hinders me 
from saying, of her I value. ) From this instant you are 
doubly dead to me, and all the vexation and concern I 
endured at your parting from England was nothing to 
what I suffer the moment I hear you have left Vienna. 
Till now I had some small hopes in God and in fortune. 
I waited for accidents, and had at least the faint comfort 
of a wish when I thought of you. I am now — I cannot 
tell what — I will not tell what, for it would grieve you. 
This letter is a piece of madness, that throws me after 
you in a distracted manner. I do not know which way 
to write, which way to send it, or if it will ever reach 
your hands; if it does, what can you infer from it but 
that I am half afraid and half willing you should know 
how very much I was yours, how unfortunately well I 
knew you, and with what a miserable constancy I shall 
ever remember you. If this falls into any other hands, it 
will say nothing I shall be ashamed to own, when either 
distance or death (for aught I can tell) shall have re- 
moved you forever from the scandal of so mean an 
admirer. 

What you say of your illness frightens me with a pros- 
pect I can never so much as dream of without horror. 
Though I am never to see you again, may you live to 
please other eyes and improve other minds than mine — 
may you appear to distant worlds like a sun that is sunk 
out of the sight of our hemisphere to gladden the other. 
It is no figure of speech when I tell you, that those 
mountains of snow and woods laid in ashes you describe, 


214 


LOVE IN LETTEftS. 


are what I could wish to traverse with you. I find 1 
flattered myself when I thought Italy had pleasure that 
could allure me to have met you there. I see it was only 
the view of meeting you that made that country appear 
charming to me, and I now envy the deserts and devas- 
tations of Hungary more than any other parts of the 
polite world. It is seriously true that I have not since 
your last letter the least inclination to see Italy, though 
before I received it I longed for your summons thither ; 
but it is foolish to tell you this — did I say foolish ? It is 
a thousand times worse — it is in vain ! You touch me 
very sensibly in saying you think so well of my friend- 
ship, in that you do me too much honor. Would to God 
you would (even at this distance) allow me to correct this 
period and change these phrases according to the real 
truth of my heart. I am foolish again, and methinks I 
am imitating in my ravings the dreams of splenetic en- 
thusiasts and solitaires who fall in love with saints, and 
fancy themselves in the favor of angels and spirits whom 
they never can see or touch. I hope, indeed, that you, 
like one of those better beings, have a benevolence towards 
me, and I, on my part, really look up to you with zeal 
and fervor, not without some faint expectation of meeting 
hereafter, which is something between piety and mad- 
ness. 

Madam, I beg you to be so just to my impatience and 
anxiety for your sake as to give me the first notice possi- 
ble of your health and progress. This letter takes its 
chance from Mr. Stanhope’s office. Though you direct 
me to the merchant-ships bound for Constantinople, I 
could not stay so long as till one of those sets out. 
Whether you receive letters from me or not, you may de- 
pend upon my having writ, as the consequence of my 
thinking so often and so warmly of you. May Provi- 
dence overshadow you, and that virtue and spirit which 
expose you to dangers protect you from them. I am the 
most earnest of your well-wishers, and, was going to say, 
your most faithful servant, but am angry at the weakness 
of all the terms I can use to express myself Yours. 


POPE AND LADY MONTAGU. 


215 


IV. 


* * * I have a mind to fill tlie rest of this paper 
with an accident that happened just under my eyes, and 
has made a great impression upon me. I have just passed 
part of this summer at an old romantic seat of my Lord 
Harcourt’s, which he lent me. It overlooks a common 
field, where, under the shade of a haycock, sat two lovers, 
as constant as ever were found in romance, beneath a 
spreading-beech. The name of the one (let it sound as it 
will) was John Hughes, of the other, Sarah Drew. John 
was a well-set man, about five-and-twenty ; Sarah, a brown 
woman of eighteen. John had for several months borne 
the labor of the day in the same field with Sarah : when 
she milked, it was his morning and evening charge to 
bring the cows to her pail. Their love was the talk, but 
not the scandal, of the whole neighborhood; for all they 
aimed at was the blameless possession of each other in 
marriage. It was but this very morning that he had ob- 
tained her parents’ consent, and it was but till the next 
week that they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps this 
very day, in the intervals of their work, they were talking 
of their wedding clothes; and John was now matching 
several kinds of poppies and field flowers to her com- 
plexion, to make her a present of knots for the day. 
While they were thus employed (it was on the last of 
July,) a terrible storm of thunder and lightning arose 
and drove the laborers to what shelter the trees or hedges 
afforded. Sarah, frightened and out of breath, sank on 
a haycock, and John (who never separated from her) sate 
by her side, having raked two or three heaps together to 
secure her. Immediately there was heard so loud a crack 
as if heaven had burst asunder. The laborers, all solicit- 
ous for each other’s safety, called to one another; those 
that were nearest to our lovers, hearing no answer, 
stepped to the place where they lay. They first saw a 
little smoke, and after, this faithful pair; John with one 
arm about his Sarah’s neck, and the other held over her 
face, as if to screen her from the lightning. They were 


216 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


struck dead, and already grown stiff and cold, in this 
tender posture. There was no mark or discoloring on 
their bodies, only that Sarah's eyebrow was a little singed, 
and a small place between her breasts. They were 
buried the next day in one grave, in the parish of Stan- 
ton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, where my Lord Harcourt, 
at my request, has erected a monument over them. Of 
the following epitaphs which I made, the critics have 
chosen the godly one. I like neither, but wish you had 
been in England to have done this office better; I think 
’twas what you could not have refused me on so moving 
an occasion : 

When Eastern lovers feed the fun’ral fire, 

On the same pile their faithful fair expire ; 

Here pitying Heav’n, that virtue mutual found, 

And blasted both, that it might neither wound. 

Hearts so sincere th’ Almighty saw well pleased, 

Sent His own lightning, and the victims seized. 

Think not, by rig’rous judgment seized, 

A pair so faithful could expire; 

Victims so pure Heav’n saw well pleased, 

And snatched them in celestial fire. 

Live well, and fear no sudden fate; 

When God calls virtue to the grave, 

Alike ’tis justice, soon or late, 

Mercy alike to kill or save. 

Virtue, unmoved, can hear the call, 

And face the flash that melts the ball. 

Upon the whole, I can’t think these people unhappy. 
The greatest happiness, next to living as they would have 
done, was to die as they did. The greatest honor people 
of this low degree could have, was to be remembered on a 
little monument, unless you will give them another — that 
of being honored with a tear from the finest eyes in the 
world. I know you have tenderness; you must have it, 
it is the very emanation of sense and virtue; the finest 
minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest. 

But when you are reflecting upon objects of pity, pray 
do not forget one who had no sooner found out an object 
of the highest esteem, than he was separated from it ; and 
who is so very unhappy as not to be susceptible of conso- 


POPE AND LAD 5? MONTAGU 


217 


lation from others, by being so miserably in the right as 
to think other women what they really are. Such a one 
can’t but be desperately fond of any creature that is quite 
different from these. * * * * * 


v. 


LADY MONTAGU TO POPE. 

Dover, Nov. 1st, O. S., 1718. 

I have this minute received a letter of yours, sent me 
from Paris. I believe and hope I shall very soon see 
both you and Mr. Congreve; but as I am here in an inn, 
where we stay to regulate our march to London, bag and 
baggage, I shall employ some of my leisure time in an- 
swering that part of yours that seems to require an 
answer. 

I must applaud your good nature in supposing that 
your pastoral lovers (vulgarly called haymakers) would 
have lived in everlasting joy and harmony if the lightning 
had not interrupted their scheme of happiness. I see no 
reason to imagine that John Hughes and Sarah Drew 
were either wiser or more virtuous than their neighbors. 
That a well-set man of twenty-five should have a fancy 
to marry a brown woman of eighteen, is nothing mar- 
vellous; and I cannot help thinking that, had they mar- 
ried, their lives would have passed in the common track 
with their fellow-parishioners. His endeavoring to shield 
her from a storm was a natural action, and what he cer- 
tainly would have done for his horse, if he had been in the 
same situation. Neither am I of opinion that their sud- 
den death was a reward of their mutual virtue. You 
know the Jews were reproved for thinking a village des- 
troyed by fire more wicked than those that had escaped 
the thunder. Time and chance happen to all men. Since 
you desire me to try my skill in an epitaph, I think the 
following lines perhaps more just, but not so poetical as 
yours: 


218 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Here lie John Hughes and Sarah Drew ; 

Perhaps you’ll say, What’s that to you ? 

Believe me, friend, much may be said 
On this poor couple that are dead. 

On Sunday next they should have married, 

But see how oddly things are carried ! 

On Thursday last it rained and lightened, 

These tender lovers, sadly frightened, 

Sheltered beneath the cocking hay, 

In hopes to pass the time away. 

But the bold thunder found them out 
(Commissioned for that end no doubt,) 

And, seizing on their trembling breath, 

Consigned them to the shades of death. 

Who knows if ’twas not kindly done ? 

For, had they seen the next year’s sun, 

A beaten wife and cuckold swain 
Had jointly cursed the marriage chain. 

Now they are happy in their doom. 

For Pope has wrote upon their tomb. 

I confess these sentiments are not altogether so heroic 
as yours; but I hope you will forgive them in favor of the 
last two lines. You see how much I esteem the honor 
you have done them; though I am not very impatient to 
have the same, and had rather continue to be your stupid, 
living, humble servant, than to be celebrated by all the 
pens in Europe. 

I would write to Congreve, but suppose you will read 
this to him if he inquires after me. 


DENYS DIDEROT. 


Prominent among the polemical writers of Prance 
stands Denys Diderot, a native of Langres in Cham- 
pagne, where he was born in 1713. Educated for the 
church, but declining to take orders, he was placed in 
the chambers of a legal practitioner in Paris ; but in like 
manner he abandoned the law. Literature was now 
chosen as his profession; and he became one of the most 
famous among those literary and scientific men, whose 
attacks on the established order of things religious and 
ecclesiastical, as well as political, are alleged to have 
acted so powerfully in precipitating the French Revolu- 
tion. It was Diderot who projected the great “ Encyclo- 
pedic, ou Dictionnaire Raisonne des Sciences, des Arts, et 
des Metiers,” which he carried on in conjunction with 
D’Alembert, Rousseau, Voltaire, and other eminent writers. 
Diderot’s published correspondence, especially with Grimm 
and Voltaire, throws much light on the gloomy picture 
which French society and morals presented during the 
middle of the eighteenth century. His love letters to 
Mademoiselle Sophie Voland are perhaps of all his wri- 
tings the most interesting, overflowing with wit and 
anecdote. She was a very charming and excellent lady, 
quite worthy of the attachment she inspired Diderot 
with for upwards of twenty years, and which only ceased 
with his death, in 1784 


220 


love in letters. 


I 

DIDEROT TO SOPHIE VOLANT). 


July, 1759. 

I cannot leave this place without saying a few words to 
you. So, my pet, you expect a good deal from me. 
Your happiness, your life, even, depend, you say, upon 
my ever loving you ! Never fear, my dear Sophie ; that 
will endure, and you shall live and be happy. I have 
never committed a crime yet, and am not going to begin. 
I am wholly yours — you are everything to me ; we will 
sustain each other in all the ills of life it may please fate 
to inflict upon us ; you will soothe my troubles ; I will 
comfort you in yours. Would that I could always see 
you as you have been lately ! As for myself, you must 
confess that I am just as I was on the first day you saw 
me. This is no merit of my own : but I owe it in justice 
to myself to tell you so. It is one effect of good qualities 
to be felt more vividly from day to day. Be assured of 
my constancy to yours, and of my appreciation of them. 
Never was a passion more justified by reason than mine. 
Is it not true, my dear Sophie, that you are very amia- 
ble? Examine yourself — see how worthy you are of 
being loved ; and know that I love you very much. 
That is the unvarying standard of my feelings. 

Good night, my dear Sophie. I am as happy as man 
can be in knowing that I am loved by the best of women. 


JX 


9th October, 1759. 

I am at a friend’s ; and I write to her I love. Do you 
know, dear girl, how T happy you render me! Do you 
know by what ties I am attached to you. Do you doubt 
that my feeling for you will last as long as my life ? I 
was full of the tenderness with which you have inspired 


DENTS DIDEROT. 


221 


me, when I was in the company of my friends. It shone 
in my eyes ; it spoke in my tongue ; it governed every 
motion ; it showed itself in everything. I must have 
appeared very strange to them ; extraordinarily inspired; 
divine ! Grimm had not eyes enough wherewith to see 
me, nor ears enough to hear me — they were all aston- 
ished. I experienced an internal satisfaction which I am 
unable to express to you. It was as if a fire burned at 
the bottom of my heart, swelling my bosom, which shone 
upon and warmed them. We passed a night of enthusi- 
asm, of which I was the focus. It is not without regret 
that I leave so charming a position. Yet I must — duty 
calls me, and I obey. Upon leaving Grandval, I could 
not help returning to Montamy, who said, “ Ah, my dear 
sir, what pleasure you have given me !” and I replied in 
a whisper — “ It is not I, but she , who has inspired me.” 
Adieu, my dear Sophie ! — adieu, dear girl ! I am impa- 
tient to see you again ; and yet I have but just parted 
from you. To-morrow, at nine, I shall be with the 
Baron. I had muoh rather be with you. Adieu! adieu! 


nr. 

Au Gbandval, 15th Oct., 1759. 

I have sent three times to Charenton, and yet found no 
news from my dearest Sophie ; how is it you have not 
written to me ? I sent the servant the day before yester- 
day at half-past two, telling him if he got any letters to 
put them in my bureau, of which I gave him a key. At 
six o’clock I expected he had returned. Never did an 
evening appear to me so long. I went up stairs, opened 
the drawer, but — no letters ! When I returned to my 
friends I appeared to them disturbed, for everything 
that passes within my heart shows itself in my face. I 
could not join in the conversation as usual. Cards were 
proposed, and I made one of the party. In the middle 
of the game I was obliged to get up, and go to the 
bureau again; but again found nothing ! I said to my- 


222 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


self — perhaps that rogue has stopped to drink on the 
road, and there is no telling when he will get back. So 
much the better ; I shall retire early ; I shall be alone ; 
I shall go to bed, and lay my head on my pillow. 

I promised myself a great pleasure. I was impatient 
for the supper ; and as soon as it was over I went up 
stairs again. I hastened to the bureau, not doubting 
this time that I should find what I sought. Judge how 
bitterly I was disappointed in finding no letter ! 

What is it that prevents your using the address I left 
with you? Have your letters miscarried? Or are you 
punishing me for my silence ? Is it your intention to 
make me suffer the pain you have experienced yourself ? 

Anything more strange I cannot conceive. I do not 
know what to think. We expect a messenger from Paris 
this evening. He passes through Charenton. I have 
requested him to call at the post-office, to see if there be 
anything for Grandval. He will be here at seven o’clock. 
It is now four. I must wait patiently three hours. 
While waiting, I shall converse with my friends, as if I 
was very much at my ease, although I shall in fact be 
very fidgety. 

* * * * It is seven o’clock, and that messenger 

has not made his appearance. I am dreadfully uneasy. 
I shall go myself to-morrow to Charenton, if a deluge of 
rain does not prevent me. 

We were at cards. The clock struck nine, and our 
messenger returned. All have received letters but me. 
It is not possible you have not written to me. That fel- 
low of a servant must have deceived me, and has never 
been to Charenton at all ; or, perhaps the postmaster 
has refused to give my letters to the messenger ; or else 
he had not money to pay the postage. I fancy every- 
thing to satisfy my mind. I accuse everything but you 
* * * * Adieu, cruel, silent Sophie. Adieu 


IV. 


Atj Geandval, 20th Oct, 1759. 

You are well ! You think of me ! You love me. You 
will always love me. I believe you : now am I happy. 


DENTS DIDEROT. 


228 


I live again : I can talk, work, play, walk — do anything 
you wish. I must have made myself very disagreeable 
the last two or three days. No ! my love ; your very 
presence would not have delighted me more than your 
first letter did. How impatiently I waited for it ! I am 
sure my hands trembled when opening it. My counte- 
nance changed ; my voice altered ; and unless he were a 
fool, he who handed it to me would have said — “ That 
man receives news from his father or mother, or some 
one else he loves.” I was just at that moment about to 
send you a letter expressing my great uneasiness. While 
you are amusing yourself, you forget how much my 
heart suffers. * * * * Adieu, my dearest love. My 
affection for you is ardent and sincere. I would love 
you even more than I do, if I knew how. 


LAWRENCE STERNE, 


The author of “ Tristram Shandy,” though bom in 
1713, at Clonmel, owed his Irish birth, and the passing 
of his childhood in Ireland, to the fact that his father 
the younger son of a Yorkshire squire, was then a lieu- 
tenant in a marching regiment. He was educated by his 
father’s kinsmen, and about 1740 a clerical uncle ob- 
tained for him a prebend in York Cathedral, and the 
living of Sutton in the East Riding. The following letters 
were addressed by Sterne to Miss Lumley, whom he 
married in 1741. In addition to the positions he already 
held, his wife’s family obtained for him the parish of 
Stillington. Thereafter the two parishes being adjacent 
he continued to perform duty in both, residing at Sutton, 
amusing himself, to quote his own words, “ with books, 
painting, fiddling and shooting,” quarrelling with his 
clerical brethren, and collecting, by observation and 
reading, the materials on which his literary fame was to 
be built. The moral tendency of Sterne’s writings is 
unquestionably low, but his airy and graceful humor is 
admirable, and some of his characters are among the 
most natural and original of any comic portraits out of 
Shakespeare. Sterne died in London in 1768, a victim 
to dissolute habits. 


LAWRENCE STERNE. 


225 


I 

STERNE TO MISS LTJMLEY. 

Yes ! I will steal from the world, and not a babbling 
tongue shall tell where I am. Echo shall not so , 
much as whisper my hiding-place. Suffer thy imagina- 
tion to paint it as a little sun-gilt cottage, on the side of 
a romantic hill. Dost thou think I will leave love and 
friendship behind me ? No ! they shall be my compan- 
ions in solitude, for they will sit down and rise up with 

me in the amiable form of my L . We will be as 

merry and as innocent as our first parents in Para- 
dise, before the arch-fiend entered that indescribable 
scene. 

The kindest affections will have room to shoot and ex- 
pand in our retirement, and produce such fruit as mad- 
ness and envy and ambition have always killed in the 
bud. Let the human tempest, and hurricane rage at a 
distance, the desolation is beyond the horizon of peace. 

My L has seen a polyanthus blow in December — 

some friendly wall has sheltered it from the biting wind. 
No planetary influence shall reach us but that which pre- 
sides and cherishes the sweetest flowers. God preserve 
us ! How delightful this prospect in idea ! We will 
build and we will plant, in our own way — simplicity shall 
not be tortured by art. We will learn of nature how to 
live — she shall be our alchemist’ to mingle all the good 
of life in one salubrious draught. The gloomy family of 
care and distrust shall be banished from our dwelling, 
guarded by the kind and tutelar deity. We will sing our 
choral songs of gratitude and rejoice to the end of our 
pilgrimage. 

Adieu, my L . Betum to one who languishes for 

thy society. 


L. Sterne. 


226 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


II. 

You bid me tell you, my dear, L , bow I bore your 

departure for S , and whether the valley where D’Es- 

tella stands retains still its looks : or, if I think the roses 
or jessamines smell as sweet as when you left it. Alas ! 
everything has now lost its relish and look ! The hour 
you left D’Estella, I took to my bed. I was worn out 
with fevers of all kinds, but most by that fever of the 
heart with which thou knowest well I have been wasting 
these two years — and shall continue wasting till you quit 

S . The good Miss S , from the forebodings of 

the best of hearts, thinking I was ill, insisted upon my 

going to her. What can be the cause, my dear L , 

that I never have been able to see the face of this mutual 
friend but I feel myself rent to pieces ? She made me 
stay an hour with her, and in that short space I burst 
into tears a dozen different times, and in such affection- 
ate gusts of passion that she was constrained to leave the 
room, and sympathize in her dressing-room. I have 
been weeping for you both, said she, in a tone of the 
sweetest pity — for poor L.’s heart, I have long known it 
— her anguish is as sharp as yours, her heart as tender, 
her constancy as great, her virtues as heroic. Heaven 
brought you not together to be tormented. I could only 
answer her with a kind look and a heavy sigh, and re- 
turned home to your lodgings (which I have hired till 
your return) to resign myself to misery. Fanny had 
prepared me a supper — she is all attention to me — but I 

sat over it with tears ; a bitter sauce, my L ■, but I 

could eat it with no other, for the moment she began to 
spread my little table my heart fainted within me. One 
solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass ! I gave a 
thousand pensive penetrating looks at the chair thou 
hast so often graced in those quiet and sentimental 
repasts, then laid down my knife and fork and took out 
my handkerchief, and clapped it across my face and wept 

like a child. I do so this very moment, my L , for 

as I take up my pen my poor pulse quickens, my pale 
face glows, and tears are trickling down upon the paper 
as I trace the word L . O thou I blessed in thyself 


LAWRENCE STERNE. 


227 


and in thy virtues — blessed to all who know thee — to me 
most so, because more do I know of thee than all thy 

sex. This is the philtre, my L , by which thou hast 

charmed me, and by which thou wilt hold me thine 
whilst virtue and faith hold this world together. This, 
my friend, is the plain and simple magic by which I told 

Miss I have won a place in that heart of thine, on 

which I depend so satisfied, that time, or distance, or 
change of everything which might alarm the hearts of 
little men, create no uneasy suspense in mine. Wast 

thou to stay in S these seven years, thy friend, 

though he would grieve, scorns to doubt, or to be doubted 
— ’tis the only exception where security is not the parent 
of danger. I told you poor Fanny was all attention to 
me since your departure — contrives every day bringing 

in the name of L . She told me last night (upon 

giving me some hartshorn) she had observed my illness 

began the very day of your departure for S , that I 

had never held up my head, had seldom, or scarce ever 
smiled ; had fled from all society ; that she verily be- 
lieved I was broken-hearted, for she had never entered 
the room, or passed by the door, but she heard me sigh 
heavily — that I neither ate, or slept, or took pleasure in 

anything as before. Judge then, my L , can the 

valley look so well, or the roses and jessamines smell so 
sweet as heretofore? Ah me! but adieu, the vesper 
bell calls me from thee to my God ! 

L. Sterne. 


hl 

Before now my L has lodged an indictment 

against me in the high court of friendship. I plead 
guilty to the charge, and entirely submit to the mercy of 
that amiable tribunal. Let this mitigate my punish- 
ment, if it will not expiate my transgression. Do not 
say that I shall offend again in the same manner, though 
a too easy pardon sometimes occasions a repetition of 
the same fault. A miser says, though I do no good 


228 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


with my money to-day, to-morrow shall be marked with 
some deed of beneficence. The libertine says, let me 
enjoy this week in forbidden and luxurious pleasures, 
and the next I will dedicate to serious thought and re- 
flection. The gamester says, let me have one more 
chance with the dice, and I will never touch them more. 
The knave of every profession wishes to obtain but inde- 
pendency, and he will become an honest man. The 
female coquette triumphs in tormenting her inamorato, 
for fear, after marriage, he should not pity her. 

The apparition of the fifth instant (for letters may 
almost be called so) proved more welcome as I did not 

expect it. Oh, my L , thou art kind indeed to make 

an apology for me, and thou never wilt assuredly repent 
of one act of kindness, for being thy debtor, I will pay 

thee with interest. Why does my L complain of the 

dese tion of friends ? Where does the human being live 
that will not join in this complaint? It is a common 
observation, and perhaps too true, that married people 
seldom extend their regards beyond their own fireside. 
There is such a thing as parsimony in esteem as well as 
money. Yet as one costs nothing it might be bestowed 
with more liberality. We cannot gather grapes from 
thorns, so we must not expect kind attachments from 
persons who are wholly folded up in selfish schemes. 1 
do not know whether I most despise or pity such charac- 
ters ; nature never made an unkind creature — ill usage 
and bad habits have deformed a fair and lovely creation. 

My L ! thou art surrounded by all the melan- 

choly gloom of winter ; wert thou alone, the retirement 
would be agreeable. Disappointed ambition might 
envy such a retreat, and disappointed love would seek it 
out. Crowded towns and busy societies may delight the 
unthinking and the gay, but solitude is the best nurse of 
wisdom. Methinks I see my contemplative girl now in 
the garden watching the gradual approaches of spring. 
Dost not thou mark with delight the first vernal buds ? 
the snow-drop and primrose, those early and welcome 
visitors, spring beneath thy feet. Flora and Pomona 
already consider thee as their handmaid, and in a little 
time will load thee with their sweetest blessing. The 
feathered race are all thy own, and with them untaught 


LAWRENCE STERNE. 


m 


harmony will soon begin to cheer thy morning and even- 
ing walks. Sweet as this may be, return — return — the 
birds of Yorkshire will tune their pipes and sing as me- 
lodiously as those of Staffordshire. 

Adieu, my beloved L , thine too much for my 

peace . 


L. Stebne. 


IV. 

I have offended her I so tenderly love ! What could 
tempt me to it? but if a beggar was to knock at thy 
gate would thou not open the door and be melted 
with compassion? I know thou wouldst, for Pity has 
erected a temple in thy bosom. Sweetest and best of 
human passions ! let thy web of tenderness cover the 
pensive form of affliction, and soften the darkest shades 
of misery ! I have reconsidered this apology, and alas ! 
what will it accomplish? Arguments, however finely 
spun, can never change the nature of things — very 
true — so a truce with them. 

I have lost a very valuable Mend by a sad accident, 
and what is worse, he has left a widow and five young 
children to lament this sudden stroke. If real useful- 
ness and integrity of heart could have secured him 
from this, his Mends would not now be mourning his 
untimely fate. These dark and seemingly cruel dispensa- 
tions of Providence often make the best of human hearts 
complain. Who can paint the distress of the affection- 
ate mother, made a widow in a moment, weeping in 
bitterness over a numerous, helpless, and fatherless off- 
spring ? God ! these are thy chastisements, and require 
(hard task) a pious acquiesence. 

Forgive me this digression, and allow me to drop a 
tear over a departed Mend, and, what is more excel- 
lent, an honest man. My L ! thou wilt feel all 

that kindness can inspire on the death of . Tho 

event was sudden, and thy gentle spirit would be more 


230 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


alarmed on that account. But my L , thou hast less 

to lament, as old age was creeping on, and her period of 
doing good and being useful was nearly over. At sixty 
years of age the tenement gets fast out of repair, and the 
lodger, with anxiety, thinks of a discharge. In such a 
situation the poet might well say, 

“The soul uneasy,” etc. 

Mr. L talks of leaving the country. May a kind 

angel guide thy steps hither ! Solitude at length grows 
tiresome. Thou sayest thou wilt quit the place with 
regret. I think so too. Does not something uneasy 
mingle with the very reflection of leaving it ? It is like 
parting with an old friend, whose temper and company 
one has long been acquainted with. I think I see you 
looking twenty times a day at the house — almost count- 
ing every pane of glass, and telling them at the same time, 
with a sigh, you are going to leave them. Oh happy 
modification of matter ! they will remain insensible of 
thy loss. But how wilt thou be able to part with thy 
garden? The recollection of so many pleasing walks 
must have endeared it to you. The trees, the shrubs, 
the flowers, which thou reared with thy own hands 
— will they not droop and fade away sooner upon thy de- 
parture ? Who will be the successor to nurse them in 
thy absence ? Thou wilt leave thy name upon the myr- 
tle tree. If trees, and shrubs, and flowers could com- 
pose an elegy, I should expect a very plaintive one upon 
this subject. 

Adieu, adieu! Believe me ever, ever thine 

L. Sterne. 


JULIA DE L’ESPINESSE, 


Early in the eighteenth century an entry was made in 
the parish registry of the Church of St. Paul at Lyons, 
of the birth of a child, the daughter of a humble trades- 
man, named Espinesse, and his wife Julia. She was in 
reality the daughter of the Countess D’Albon, born 
during a prolonged absence of the Count. So long as he 
lived the child remained in the care of the reputed 
mother, but upon the death of the Count she was 
received in the family of her mother the Countess in 
charity, and she was in consequence looked upon with 
an eye of pity by her own brothers and sisters. To do 
the Countess justice, she did not entirely forget that Julia 
was her child, and she endeavored to overcome the 
repugnance of the other children to her, who thought 
more of losing a portion of their heritage than of gaining 
a sister : she brought her up with the greatest care, and 
cultivated her mind, which subsequently became her 
only patrimony. When Julia had attained the age of 
fifteen her mother died, and she when dying revealed to 
her the secret of her birth, gave her a sum of money, and 
a casket of papers. Julia did not comprehend the full 
value of this casket. She gave it, and the mouey too, 
to her brother, the new Count d’Albon, and he took it, 


232 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


then turned her out of doors. She found refuge at a 
married sister’s in Burgundy, and became governess to 
her children, and for three years endured every imag- 
inable tyranny, insult and cruelty. But she did not 
allow herself to be overcome by her misfortunes ; her 
misery was not greater than her energy. She had a keen 
instinct for independence, and won it by her genius, wit, 
and talent for raillery. When Julia had attained the age 
of twenty, it happened that the heartless Madame du 
Deffand m^de a visit to the family where she was domes- 
ticated, and immediately recognizing her superior talents 
and abilities, soon prevailed upon Julia to accompany 
her to Paris, where Madame du Deffand held sway over 
one of the coteries so much in vogue in the gay capital 
at that time. Julia’s appearance in Paris soon created a 
sensation. She was not inaptly termed the modern Sap- 
pho, and all the rank, talent, and fashion of the city has- 
tened to pay homage to her charms of mind and person. 
At the house of a common friend the celebrated 
D’Alembert first met Mile de l’Espinesse, whose society 
was eagerly sought by the elite of the literary world of 
Paris. Between her and the philosopher a mutual 
attachment grew up, which though as appeared after- 
wards, not very strong on her part, became the ruling 
passion of D’Alembert’s future life. When in 1765 he 
was attacked by a violent disorder, she insisted on being 
his attendant, and after his recovery they lived in the 
same house. It is said that friendship was their only 
bond of union : and this may be believed, since in the 
then state of opinion, the assertion, if untrue, would 
have been unnecessary. The friendship or love of this lady, 
who appears to have been more famous for her wit and 
beauty, than for virtue, found other objects : and though 
D’Alembert still retained all his former affection for her, 
she treated him with unkindness. Her lover was a M. 


JTJLIA DE l’eSPINESSE. 


233 


de Mora, and after his death, she transferred her affec- 
tions to M. de Guibert, to whom the following letters 
were addressed. Mademoiselle, who had many other 
lovers, became the most famous among modern Aspasias 
and Phrynes. Paris had no traviata so celebrated. The 
death of Mile de l’Espinesse left D’Alembert inconsolable : 
and his reflections upon her tomb, published in his pos- 
thumous work, present the singular spectacle of a lover 
mourning for a mistress whose regard for him, as he was 
obliged to admit himself, had entirely ceased long before 
her death. 


MLLE DE L’ESPINESSE TO M. DE GUIBEBT. 


I. 

Dearest: I have not seen you, and you tell me that it is 
not your fault ! but if you had the thousandth part of a wish 
to see me that I have to see you, you would be here, and 
I should be happy. No, I was mistaken, and I suffer : 
but I do not covet the pleasures of heaven. Dearest, I 
love you to distraction, to folly, to extravagance, to des- 
pair! Every day you torture my heart most cruelly. 
I saw you this morning, and forgot it all ; and it 
seemed to me as if I could not make enough of you, 
loving you with my whole soul, and feeling as if I could 
live and die for you. You deserve more than that of me ; 
yes, if I only knew that you loved me, it would be as 
nothing, for nothing can be more simple and natural 
than to love to distraction one who is so good as you 
are. But dear friend, I more than love, I suffer. I 
will give up all my happiness for your good. But 
here is some one come to disturb the satisfaction I 
have in proving to you how much I love you. 

Do you wish to know why I write to you ? It is be- 
cause it gives me pleasure. You need never doubt it, 
since I have told you so. But where are you ? If you 


234 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


are happy I must not complain at your leaving me 
miserable. 


n. 

Dearest : Upon returning home last night I found your 
letter. I did not expect this happiness ; but what 
afflicts me is, that so many days must elapse before I 
can hope to see you. Ah, if you knew what sort of 
days these are, what life itself is, deprived of the interest 
and pleasure of seeing you! Dear friend, occupation, 
business, and pleasure suffice you ; but for me, you are 
my only happiness, you only. I would not care to live 
but for the pleasure of seeing you, and of loving you 
every moment of my life. Let me hear from you. 
Adieu. I expect the letter you promised me. 

In haste, yours ever. 


m. 

I give way to the desire of my heart, dearest ! I love 
you. I feel as much pleasure and torture as if it were 
the first and last times in my life that I pronounced these 
words. Ah ! why do you torture me ? — why am I so 
humbled ? You will know some day. Alas ! you w ill 
understand me. It is dreadful that I must always suffer 
for you, and through you. Is that for loving you ? — • 
Adieu, dearest friend. 


IV. 

Return me my two last letters ; there can be no diffi- 
culty, as I ask not for those of Cicero or of Pliny. I do 


JULIA DE l’eSPINESSE. 


235 


not wish to see you ; never again. Is not regret 
better tlian remorse? At the very moment you read 
this, I will venture to say that you have already received 
a note in which they say to you — what should I know ? 

But be not uneasy : if it be possible, be happy : such 
is the wish, the hope, and the desire of the unhappy crea- 
ture who has always before her eyes the fearful inscrip- 
tion Dante has placed over the gate of hell : — 

“ Abandon bope all ye who enter here.” 

No, I have none, wish for none. Perish the day that I 
remain alone. Alas ! you distract me, and come not to 
console me! 


Y. 


Thbee o’clock. 

I could not write to you myself. If you love me, this 
will make you unhappy ; and I shall be miserable at 
giving you pain, which I might avoid. I was in such a 
state of anguish it was quite agonizing. I cried bitterly 
for four hours. No, never did my heart suffer such utter 
despair. The fear of something terrible almost drives 
me crazy. I dread Wednesday, and it seems to me that 
death itself is not remedy sufficient for the loss I dread. 
I feel it only too much ; it requires no courage to die, 
but it is terrible to live. I cannot endure the thought 
that he whom I love, and who loves me, would not hear 
me, nor come to my assistance. He would be horrified 
to see me dead. He said to me, the 10th. I have that 
within me which will make you forget all 1 have caused 
you to suffer ; and this very day this sad accident befalls 
me ! 

Ah, you who have felt passion and despair, can you 
imagine my misfortune ? Endure me while I live ; but 
beware of ever regretting this most unhappy creature, 
who has existed for eight days in a state of unimaginable 


236 


LOVE IN LETTEK& 


grief. Adieu ! If I must live, if my doom is not pro- 
nounced, I shall yet find some happiness and consolation 
in your friendship. Will you always be my friend ? 


VI. 


Friday Evening. 

My love, how slowly the time passes. I have been 
weary of my existence sinch Monday, with nothing to 
relieve my impatience. I am so restless I cannot remain 
two minutes together in the same place. I go every- 
where, and see everything, but think only of one thing. 
To the heart-sick all nature wears but one aspect of 
gloom ; every object seems covered with crape. Tell 
me, how shall I distract my thoughts, where shall I find 
consolation? Ah! it is from you only that I can learn 
how to endure my existence. You alone can restore that 
pleasing pain that makes me now cherish, now hate my 
life. Dearest, I shall have a letter from you to-morrow, 
and it is this hope only that gives me strength to write 
to you this evening. You will tell me if you are assured 
of the restoration of your precious health : you will per- 
haps say when you return ; in a word, you will speak to 
me. Ah ! if you but knew how lonely, how destitute I 
feel when I know nothing of you. Ah ! how short, how 
cold, how harsh, is this note of yours. It seems that 
when you say you have been uneasy and alarmed, too, you 
have said all. What would you have? Conceal your 
feelings from me. Would you tear my heart to pieces? 
Have you not said you would tell me everything ? — that 
you would give me your unreserved confidence ? — that I 
was your friend ? — that your heart blended with mine ? — 
that it would ever beat in unison with mine ? — that I 
should remain ignorant of nothing that could wound it ? 
Ah ! dear friend, understand me ! consider what I am to 
you ; and when you know, I will reply to you, that it 
would be impossible to entertain the idea of deceiving 
me, or even of concealing anything from me. 


JULIA DE LESPINESSE. 


237 


vn. 


Tuesday, 30th May, 1773. 

Yesterday I received your letter dated Strasbourg. It 
seems to me a very long time since Wednesday, the 
19th, the day upon which I received your last token of 
remembrance. That which came yesterday has consoled 
me — has done my heart good ; it wanted to be occupied 
with pleasant thoughts to distract it — something to 
which it might abandon itself without care or remorse. 
I must confess it. I must tell you I love you dearly ; 
your absence makes me very unhappy ; but I have to 
struggle against the feelings you inspire me with. I 
well know the state of my heart. Ah, the magnitude of 
my grief justifies everything. I am not culpable, yet 
before long I shall be a victim. I thought on Wednes- 
day I should have died upon receiving a letter by an 
extraordinary courier. I had no doubt that it brought 
me some terrible news. I was so agitated that I could 
scarcely break the seal of the letter. For more than a 
quarter of an hour I could not stir — my heart seemed 
frozen within me ; and when I read the letter I found 
only half of what I feared. I had no occasion to trem- 
ble for the life of him whom I love : but saved from this 
greatest of misfortunes, mon Dieu ! what suffering yet 
remains to me ! I feel overwhelmed with the burden of 
life — it is beyond human strength to endure these trials. 
I have lost all courage, and very often I feel the want of 
it. Do you think I ought to love you? Ought I to 
desire your company? You have had the power of 
diverting me from as deep and as bitter a grief as this I 
expect. I wish for letters from you. Yes ! believe me, 
it is only the unhappy who are worthy of friends. If 
your heart had not suffered, never would you have 
touched mine. I should have admired you— praised 
your talents ; but I should have been distant, because I 
have a repugnance for that which can only occupy my 
mind. To think, it is necessary to be calm ; in agita- 
tion, we know only feeling and suffering. You tell me 
you are agitated with regret, and even with remorse ; 


238 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


that your only sensation is suffering. I believe you, and 
that afflicts me ; but still I do not know why the impres- 
sion I have received from your letter is so contrary to 
your disposition. There is a calm, a repose, and a 
strength in all your expressions : it seems to me as if 
you speak of what you have felt, not of what you do feel. 
If I were fastidious, if I had any right to speak, I should 
say to you that Strasbourg is far — is very far from the 
Rue Taranne. Montesquieu says that climate has great 
influence upon morals. In that case Strasbourg must be 
very far north of Paris. Judge, then, what I have to 
fear from St. Petersburgh. But no ! I fear nothing. I 
believe you, and in your friendship. Explain to me why 
I entertain this confidence, and do not flatter yourself 
that self-love goes for nothing. My feeling for you is 
purified from the dross which enfeebles and corrupts 
all affections. It would have been very kind of you 
had you told me if mine was the only letter you 
received at Strasbourg. I will give you a proof of my 
generosity : I would have wished it to be -changed into 
the one you most desired to receive. Marshall your 
ranks — give me my place ; but as I should not like to 
change it, let it be a good one. I do not wish for that 
belonging to this unhappy one, she is dissatisfied with 
you ; and I do not wish for that of this other person ; 
you would be dissatisfied with it. I do not know where 
you would place me ; but if possible let it be so as to 
satisfy us both ; no chicanery ; give me plenty, you will 
see that I shall not abuse it. Oh ! you will see how well 
I know how to love. I do nothing but love. I know 
of nothing but love. You know how much can be 
done even with moderate resources when they are 
centred upon a single object. I have but one thought, 
and that thought fills my whole soul, my whole existence. 
You believe that instruction and dissipation will distract 
you from your friends. You must know better, and 
yield with a good grace and with good faith to the power 
that your character has over your will, your feelings, and 
all your actions. Those who are governed by a desire 
of loving never to go St. Petersburgh ; still, they 
sometimes go very far ; but they are condemned, and 
they do not say what they admit into their hearts to find 


JULIA DE l’eSPINESSE. 


239 


what they love : they believe they have not quitted, 
although they are a thousand leagues off : but there is 
more than one way of being good and excellent ; you will 
do very well in your way, in the full acceptation of 
these words. I could pity a sensible woman to whom 
you would be the principal object ; her life would be 
consumed in fears and regrets, but I would congratulate 
a vain, proud woman ; she would pass her life applauded, 
and in gratifying her tastes ; such women love glory, 
consideration, eclat. This is all very fine, very noble, but 
very cold. But I am foolish, and worse than that— but 
I have only a tone, a color, a manner, and when it fails 
to interest, it freezes with ennui. You can tell me 
which of the two effects it would have produced ; but 
what you will tell me also if you please, is, how you 
do, and I will tell you the only news that interests me — 
the military school is not yet formed. 


KLOPSTOCK AND META I0LLER. 


I taught thee first to love, and seeking thee, 

I learned what true love was ; it raised my heart 
From earth to heaven, and now, through Eden’s groves, 

With thee it leads me on in endless joy. 

Friedrich Klopstock. 

Friedrich Klopstock, a German poet, was highly cele- 
brated till the public taste received a new direction from 
the more brilliant genius and the greater versatility of 
Goethe and Schiller. He was born in 1724, at Quedlin- 
burg, in Prussian Saxony. After receiving a regular edu- 
cation, and studying theology, he abandoned all profes- 
sional views, and devoted himself to literature. The fol- 
lowing letters were addressed to Meta or Margaret Mol- 
ler, the daughter of a respectable merchant, whom Klop- 
stock afterwards married. She relates to Richardson the 
novelist, in her German-English, the manner in which she 
passes the day. She tells him that she “ is always present 
at the birth of the young verses, which begin by frag- 
ments, here and there, of a subject with which his soul 
is just then filled. Persons who live as we do have no 
need of two chambers; we are always in the same; I 
with my little work, still, still; only regarding sometimes 
my husband’s face, which is so venerable at that time 
with tears of devotion, and all the sublimity of the sub- 
ject — my husband reading me his young verses, and suf- 
fering my criticisms.” Their happiness was of short du- 


KLOPSTOCK AND META MOLLER. 


241 


ration; she died in child-bed in 1758, four years after 
their marriage, and was buried with her infant in her 
arms, at Attenson, near Altona. Inscribed on her coffin 
was a passage from the Messiah, descriptive of the resur- 
rection: 

“ Seed sown by God, to ripen for the harvest” 

In a little poem written after her death, the bereaved 
husband alludes to his lost love, and sleepless nights: 

“ Again the form of my lost wife I see . 

She lies before me, and she dies again; 

Again she smiles on me, again she dies; 

Her eyes now close, and comfort me no more.” 

The amiable and angelic Meta’s letters show her to 
have been a well-educated and pious woman, with strong 
character and tenderest feelings. She was the author of 
a tragedy entitled “The Death of Abel,” and. “Letters 
from the Dead.” Klopstock resided for a number of 
years at Copenhagen, and spent the last thirty years of 
his life at Hamburg, where he died in 1803, and was 
buried by the side of Meta and their child. His greatest 
work, called “ The Messiah,” well known through an 
English translation, was published in complete form in 
1773. Its strained dignity, its overflow of feeling, and 
its artificiality of diction, have long ceased to receive the 
admiration which was once lavished on it. His odes, 
especially those of a religious character, are still much 
valued by his countrymen, in spite of their frequent ob- 
scurity. 


242 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


L 

META TO KLOPSTOCK. 

I must write to you this evening, and you shall find my 
letter at Copenhagen. Best of men, you ought to find in 
me a wife desirous to imitate you as far as it can be possi- 
ble. I will — indeed I will resemble you as much as I can. 
My soul leans upon yours. This is the evening on which 
we read your Ode to God. Do you remember it ? If I 
can preserve as much fortitude as I have acquired this 
evening, I will not shed a tear at our parting. You will 
leave me, but I shall again receive you, and receive you 
as your wife. Alas ! after another day you will be gone 
far — far from me, and it will be long before I see you 
again; but I must restrain my grief. God will be with 
you, your God and mine. When you are gone I shall be 
more firm than I am now, as I have already assured you. 
I trust in our gracious God that he will restore you to 
me, that he will make me happy. He knows that through 
you I shall be continually improving; he has already be- 
stowed on us so much happiness, that I trust he will com- 
plete our felicity. Begin then your journey, only let me 
weep — indeed, I cannot help it. May God be with you ! 

0 my God, it is Klopstock for whom I pray ! Be thou 
with him : show thy mercy to me in granting this request. 
If my gratitude can be acceptable to thee, thou knowest 
how grateful I am. O thou all-merciful, how much feli- 
city hast thou already vouchsafed to me; felicity for which 

1 could not have presumed to ask. O still be gracious to 
me, to my Klopstock. I recommend him to thee ! 


n. 

KLOPSTOCK TO META. 

With what transport do I think of you, my Meta, my 
only treasure, my wife ! When I fancy I behold you, my 


KLOPSTOCK AND META MOLLER. 


243 


mind is filled with the heavenly thoughts which so often 
fervently and delightfully occupy it; and while I think of 
you, they are still more fervent, more delightful. They 
glow in my breast, but no words can express them. You 
are dearer to me than all who are connected with me by 
blood or by friendship, dearer than all which is dear to 
me besides in creation. My sister, my friend, you are 
mine by love, by pure and holy love, which Providence (O 
how grateful am I for the blessing,) has made the inhabi- 
tant of my soul upon earth. It appears to me that you 
were bom my twin sister in Paradise. At present, indeed, 
we are not there, but we shall return thither. Since we 
have so much happiness here, what shall we have there ? 

Remember me to all our friends. My Meta, my forever 
beloved, I am entirely yours. 


m. 

META TO KLOPSTOCK. 


8th AuGUst, 1752. 

Return, my Klopstock, return, let me reclaim thee as 
my hostage, or shall I say my master ? No matter which, 
if I but sit by thee, and listen to thee, I can be well 
pleased to remain thy captive. Oh, how dull and dreary 
and tedious have I found these days of absence; not that 
I had to complain of unkindness — no, it was not that I 
suffered, but that I was not permitted to enjoy. Nobody 
talked of thee. I was in a beautiful country, and how 
little it availed, since I saw it not with thee. I was in 
what is called good company, but since I have tasted of 
thy thoughts and become familiar with thy perfections, I 
have lost all relish for inferior society, and find an inter- 
course with ordinary beings irksome and insupportable. 
I was dead to the gaiety of my companions, and though 
there were some young foreigners who would fain have 
drawn me into conversation, I had scarcely the complais- 
ance to reply to their questions. Was I to blame for sul- 


244 


LOVE IN' LETTERS. 


lenness ? Oh ! when I no longer heard thy voice, nor 
was even permitted to pronounce thy name, what re- 
mained but to think of thee, and how could I bear to 
part from that only solace? Had they but left me to my- 
self, had they allowed me to enjoy my own quiet medita- 
tions, I could have still been almost happy, but some 
officious stranger was forever invading my sanctuary. 
The dismal weather kept us all together, and having no 
better resource than cards, we played from morning till 
night, nor did I then regain my liberty. I slept with 
another lady, and though I constantly carried in my 
pocket a pencil and sheet of paper, could never find an 
opportunity to write a single line. Imagine how this 
must have aggravated my chagrin and impatience ! Oh, 
how poor is all without thee, and with thee how sweetly 
is the absence of every other pleasure supplied. Fain 
would I persuade myself it must cost me some effort to 
renounce all to follow thee, for methinks I should be 
proud to make some little sacrifice for thy dear sake, but 
in truth I claim no such honors. The amusements I shall 
relinquish are not only indifferent to me but irksome in 
the extreme. Here, in thy absence, with a thousand 
changes of pursuit, a single day drags so heavily that I 
could almost fancy it a livelong year, whilst with thee, 
without ever crossing the threshold, or casting a single 
glance towards the world beyond it, the moments pass 
so sweetly that the day scarcely seems to have been a 
single hour. Oh return, my Klopstock, return; that is all 
I can say. 

What will be our privilege when the lapse of time shall 
have cemented our sacred union, and we shall have passed 
years together without having experienced lassitude and 
languor for a single day ? It is true our pleasures must 
lie in a small compass, for we must find them in each 
other; but yet shall there be a something better than our- 
selves, an affection dearer than friendship, an influence 
the world cannot give, to inspirit, to animate us, and 
supply a constant source of interest and delight. Am 
I not right, Klopstock? 

I would reply to your letter if my soul was not too full. 
It is so long since I wrote, and now I feel I have so much 
to say that I cannot bring myself to order or measure. 


KLOPSTOCK AND META MOLLEH 245 

Do you chide me for being tedious? no, you will not 
chide, so I may give free course to my pen. 

Whilst I was at Stollington it was one of my sweetest 
anticipations that on my return I should find a letter 
from you. Imagine my transports when I found two, and 

one for the , which was almost as precious as mine 

own. Thou sweetest bard — long was I thy votary ere I 
ventured to think thee my beloved. Hear what oblations 
I will offer for every line of which I have been the theme. 
Yet no, for all thou hast ever written thou mayest claim, 
and shalt receive my worship. For the odes first, I bow 
to the ground, and make my low obeisance; for the Mes- 
siah I kiss thy feet; for every line inscribed to Fanny I 
hail thy name. Ah, Klopstock, often do tears steal from 
mine eyes when I reflect on all you were condemned to 
suffer; in those hours of sadness and despondence I can 
but too easily comprehend what were then your bitter 
feelings. Would it were my privilege to bestow a recom- 
pense. I must not yet aspire to such felicity, it is a priv- 
ilege reserved to the wife, and at some future period may 
be mine. Yes, my love, I dare challenge you even to have 
wished for a kinder wife than you shall find in me. And 
now I am tempted to relate an anecdote of my childhood 
with which you may perhaps be amused. 

I have already told you that at thirteen my character 
was nearly formed; this, at least, is certain, however you 
may be disposed to smile at my wisdom, that I began 
seriously to speculate on future life, and to sketch plans 
of conduct for the single or married state. I shall not 
trouble you with my various judicious schemes, on the 
supposition that I should remain a spinster, but on the 
chance of becoming a wife I made many deep reflections, 
and composed, perfectly to my own satisfaction, a system 
of domestic management, including the care of my house- 
hold and the education of my children. But above all, I 
delighted to trace to myself the proper mode of conduct 
to be observed towards a husband. And then in these 
meditative reveries did I imagine myself united to pre- 
cisely such a being as I have since discovered to exist 
when charmed with the picture of my own fancy. I ex- 
claimed to my companions, a husband should always bo 
treated with a certain douceur , but this douceur must be 


M6 


love in letters. 


wholly unstudied, and flow so freely from the heart that 
it should be impossible not to show it in every look and 
accent. Doubtless, my Klopstock, it is only with such 
looks, such accents, I can converse with thee. What say 
you to this raisonnement of thirteen ? I shall adhere to 
the same principle, though I have learnt to abridge the 
explanation, and to sum up all in this obvious truth, the 
wife must love her husband. 

See how I prattle, and with as much assurance as if I 
was leaning on your shoulder, and every other moment 
stealing from your eyes an approving glance. But in 
your last you have so sweetly encouraged me to prattle, 
that I am now bold enough to say anything, so implicitly 
can I rely on your constancy and love. I would fain 
know whether my affection were capable of being in- 
creased. I should wish to think so, but then must I also 
think that I am capable of loving more one moment than 
another, and this I feel loth to believe. I love your pa- 
rents and sisters so dearly that I almost suspect I prefer 
them to my own. It touched my heart that your father 
so kindly inquired whether religion constituted my su- 
preme delight. I thank God you could answer the ques- 
tion with a safe conscience. Will you not indeed soon 
return ? I grieve to draw you from your own family, but 
yet should I grieve still more if you were by them drawn 
from me. 


Meta Holler. 



Mrs. piozzi. 







MRS. PIOZZI. 


Esther Lynch, the daughter of John Salusbury, of Rod- 
vel, Carnarvonshire, was born in 1739. In 1763 she mar- 
ried Mr. Thrale, a brewer, and member of Parliament, 
and this gentleman having made the acquaintance of Dr. 
Samuel Johnson, the latter became a constant visitor at 
their house, at Streatham in Surrey. In 1784 Mrs. 
Thrale, after a three years’ widowhood, married Gabriel 
Piozzi, an accomplished Italian music-teacher, with whom 
she went abroad to reside. This match cost her the 
affection of her daughters and Dr. Johnson, who greatly 
opposed it. The historian Macaulay indulged in uncalled 
for and harsh criticisms of this marriage with a musician. 
Samuel Rogers, who was intimate with the Piozzi’s, 
thought the world most unjust in condemning Mrs. 
Thrale. Says the poet, alluding to Piozzi, " He was a 
very handsome, gentlemanly and amiable person, and 
made her a very good husband. In the evening he 
used to play to us most beautifully on the piano. Her 
daughters never would see her after that marriage : and 
(poor woman) when she was at a very great age, I have 
heard her say that she would go down on her knees to 
them, if they would only be reconciled to her.’* After 
Piozzi’s death in 1809, his widow returned to England, 
and when nearly eighty, she fell in love with a young 
actor, William Augustus Conway, who, with a handsome 
face and fine figure, failed to succeed in his profession. 


248 


LOVE IN LETTEKa 


He came to the United States, but met with no greater 
success here than he had done in Great Britain, and so 
abandoning the stage he studied theology. On the 
24th of January, 1824, while proceeding by sea from 
New York to Charleston, he in a fit of despair, jumped 
overboard and was drowned. Seven of Mrs. Piozzi’s 
letters were found amongst his papers. She died at 
Clifton, New Bristol, in the year 1821. Her published 
writings consist of “ Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson during the 
last twenty years of his life,” her correspondence 
with him ; and a number of poems and figurative pieces 
of a miscellaneous description ; the chief of them being a 
poetical story, called the “ The Three Warnings.” 

L 

MRS. THRALE TO DR. JOHNSON. 

Bath, June 30. 

My Dear Sir : The inclosed is a circular letter which 
I have sent to all the guardians, but our friendship 
demands something more ; it requires that I should 
beg your pardon for concealing from you a connection 
which you must have heard of by many, but I suppose 
never believed. Indeed, my dear sir, it was concealed 
only to save us both needless pain : I could not have 
borne to reject that counsel it would have killed me to 
take, and I only tell it you now because all is irrevocably 
settled and out of your power to prevent. I will say, 
however, that the dread of your disapprobation has 
given me some anxious moments, and though perhaps I 
am become, by many privations, the most independent 
woman in the world, I feel as if acting without a parent’s 
consent till you write kindly to 

Your faithful servant. 


MRS. PI0Z2I 


249 


CIRCULAR. 

Sir : As one of the executors of Mr. Thrale’s will, and 
guardian to his daughters, I think it my duty to acquaint 
you that the three eldest left Bath last Friday for their 
own house at Brighthelmstone, in company with an 
amiable friend, Miss Nicholson, who has sometimes 
resided with us here, and in whose society they may, I 
think, find some advantage, and certainly no disgrace. I 
waited on them to Salisbury, Wilton, etc., and offered to 
attend them to the seaside myself ; but they preferred 
this lady’s company to mine, having heard that Mr. 
Piozzi is coming back from Italy, and judging, perhaps, 
by our past friendship and continued correspondence, 
that his return would be succeeded by our marriage. 

I have the honor to be, sir, your obedient servant. 

Bath, June 30th, 1784. 


n. 

DR. JOHNSON TO MRS. THRALE. 

Madam: If I interpret your letter right, you are igno- 
miniously married ; if it is yet undone, let us once more 
talk together. If you have abandoned your children and 
your religion, God forgive your wickedness , if you have 
forfeited your fame and your country, may your folly do 
no further mischief. If the last act is yet to do, I who 
have loved you, esteemed you, reverenced you and served 
you , I who long thought you , the first of womankind, 
entreat that, before your fate, in irrevocable, I may once 
more see you. I was, I once, : was, madam, most truly 
yours, 

Sam. Johnson. 

July, 2d, 1784. 

I will come down if you permit it. 


250 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


m. 

MBS. THRAIiE TO DB. JOHNSOH. 

July 4th, 1784. 

Sir : I have this morning received from you so rough 
a letter in reply to one which was both tenderly and 
respectfully written, that I am forced to desire the con- 
clusion of a correspondence which I can bear to continue 
no longer. The birth of my second husband is not 
meaner than that of my first ; his sentiments are not 
meaner ; his profession is not meaner, and his superiority 
in what he professes acknowledged by all mankind. It 
is want of fortune, then, that is ignominious : the char- 
acter of the man I have chosen has no other claim to 
such an epithet. The religion to which he has been 
always a zealous adherent will, I hope, teach him to for- 
give insults he has not deserved ; mine will, I hope, 
enable me to bear them at once with dignity and 
patience. To hear that I have forfeited my fame is 
indeed the greatest insult I ever yet received. My fame 
is as unsullied as snow, or I should think it unworthy of 
him who must henceforth protect it. 

I write by the coach, the more speedily and effectually 
to prevent your coming hither. Perhaps by my fame (and 
I hope it is so) you mean only that celebrity which is a 
consideration of a much lower kind. I care for that only 
as it may give pleasure to my husband and his friends. 

Farewell, dear sir, and accept my best wishes. You 
have always commanded my esteem, and long enjoyed 
the fruits of a friendship never infringed by one harsh 
expression on my part during twenty years of familiar 
talk. Never did I oppose your will, or control your 
wish ; nor can your unmerited severity itself lessen my 
regard ; but until you have changed your opinion of Mr. 
Piozzi, let us converse no more. God bless you. 


miis. t>iom 


251 


IV. 


DR. JOHNSON TO MRS. THRAXE. 

London, July 8th, 1784. 

Dear Madam : Wliat you have done, however I may 
lament it, I have no pretence to resent, as it has not been 
injurious to me ; I therefore breathe out one sigh more 
of tenderness, perhaps useless, but at least sincere. 

I wish that God may grant you every blessing, that 
you may be happy in this world for its short continuance, 
and eternally happy in a better state ; and whatever I 
can contribute to your happiness I am very ready to 
repay, for that kindness that soothed twenty years of a 
life radically wretched. 

Do not think slightly of the advice which I now pre- 
sume to offer. Prevail upon Mr. Piozzi to settle in 
England ; you may live here with more dignity than in 
Italy, and with more security : your rank will be higher 
and your fortune more under your own eye. I desire 
not to detail my reasons, but every argument of prudence 
and interest is for England, and only some phantoms of 
imagination seduce you to Italy. 

I am afraid, however, that my counsel is vain, yet I 
have eased my heart by giving it. 

When Queen Mary took the resolution of sheltering 
herself in England, the Archbishop of St. Andrew’s, 
attempting to dissuade her, attended on her journey, and 
when they came to the irremeable stream that separated 
the two kingdoms, walked by her side into the water, in 
the middle of which he seized her bridle, and with ear- 
nestness proportioned to her danger and his own affec- 
tion pressed her to return. The Queen went forward. 
If the parallel reaches thus far, may it go no further. 
The tears stand in my eyes. 

I am going into Derbyshire, and hope to be followed 
by your good wishes, for I am, with great affection. 

Yours, etc. 

Any letters that may come for me hither will be sent 
me. 


252 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


L 

MRS. PIOZZI TO MR. CONWAY. 

Thursday Night, 3d Feb., 1820. 

I came away as early as I could — but ’tis eleven o’clock, 
so I will go to bed, that Bessy may believe me asleep ; 
and try to rest herself — poor thing. Now, however, I 
rise to say how the evening at EckersalTs passed off. 
Mrs. Stratton and her eldest Grand- daughter came early, 
so I returned their salutation much as usual — only refus- 
ing the hands I could not touch : and talked with Mr. 
Fuller about ancient Thebes, its hundred Gates, etc. 
The young lady’s airy manner — such as you describe it 
rightly, contrasting with your own cruel situation — quite 
shocked me. No crying, no cast down looks, no whim- 
pering, as last year — changeful as the weather or the 
wind, she seems at perfect Ease — Mrs. Stratton not so. 
Waddling up to me in the Course of the Night, she said 
she wanted to Talk with me : — Impossible, was the Beply. 
My life is spent in such a crowd of late : — “ but on a par- 
ticular Subject, Mrs. Piozzi “ Lord, Ma’am, who can 
talk on particular Subjects in an Assembly Boom ? And 
the King ill beside ! !” So there it ended ; and for me 
there it shall end. You and your Favorite have changed 
Characters. ’Tis not a year and a quarter since dear 
Conway, accepting of my Portrait sent to Birmingham, 
said to the Bringer : “Oh, if your Lady but retains her 
Friendship : Oh, if I can but keep her Patronage, I care 
not for the rest.” And now, when that Friendship 
follows you thro’ Sickness and thro’ Sorrow ; now that 
her Patronage is daily rising in Importance — upon a 
lock of hair given — or refused by une petite Traitresse, 
hangs all the happiness of my ohce high-spirited - and 
high-blooded Friend. Let it not be so. Exai/t thy Love: 
Dejected Heart — and rise superior to such narrow 
minds. Do not, however, fancy she will ever be punished 
in the way ybu mention : no, no, she’ll wither on the 
thorny stem, dropping the faded and ungathered leaves : 
a China Bose, of no good Scent or Flavor — false in 
apparent Sweetness, deceitful when depended on ; un- 


MRS. PIOZZL 


253 


like the Flower produced in colder climates, which is 
sought for in old Age, preserved even after death , a 
lasting and an elegant Perfume — a Medicine, too, for 
those whose shattered nerves require Astringent Reme- 
dies. And now, Dear Sir, let me request of you — to love 
yourself — and to reflect on the necessity of not dwell- 
ing on any particular subject too long or too intensely. 
It is really very dangerous to the Health of Body and 
Soul. Besides that our Time here is but short : a mere 
Preface to the great Book of Eternity ; and ’tis scarce 
worthy of a reasonable being not to keep the End oi 
human Existence so far in View that we may tend to 
it, either directly or obliquely, in every step. This is 
Preaching — but remember how the Sermon is written 
at three, four, five o’clock, by an Octogenary pen — a 
Heart (as Mrs. Lee says) twenty-six years old : and as 
H. L. P. feels it to be ; all your own. Suffer your 
dear noble self to be in some measure benefited by 
the Talents which are left me ; your health to be restored 
by soothing consolations while I remain here , and am 
able to bestow them. All is not lost yet ; you have a 
friend, and that Friend is Piozzi. 

I must go to bed. That Booby, James, not dream- 
ing how things stood, waked my poor, perhaps unre- 
freshed correspondent yesterday ; I was extremely sorry, 
and now beg your Pardon, for helping to torment him 
whom I would die to serve ; and desire to live only 
that I may serve. There was much talk at Dorset 
Fellowes’s about the true Falernian wine, of which accept 
a Bottle : tis a rarity : I likewise send a Partridge. 
Miss Williams was right. Miss Wroughton asked 
kindly for you last night, said Mr. Hicks would cure 
you, etc., etc. The Courtneys all inquired for M* 
Conway, all who seek favor from me, ask for you. 
All but 


MISS HAMAH MORE. 


The letter appended below, descriptive of a royal wed- 
ding, was written by the greatest name in the list of fe- 
male writers on moral and religions subjects in the last 
century. She was the daughter of an English clergyman, 
and was born at Stapleton, Gloucestershire, in 1744. 
Burke, Garrick, and Dr. Johnson were among her literary 
friends. The death of Garrick, in 1779, produced a great 
change in her character, and she thenceforth dedicated 
her time and energy to works of piety and benevolence. 
Hannah More experienced the sorrowful compensation that 
must be paid for a life prolonged to the verge of a century. 
Of the five talented Mores — the five women who, to Dr. 
Johnson’s amazement, lived happily together — she was 
the last survivor. In addition to those members of her 
own family, there were many losses to be bewailed of 
those friends with whom in other years she had “ taken 
sweet counsel together.” As she herself remarked to a 
visitor, “ Johnson, Burke, Garrick, Beynolds, Porteous — 
all — all the associates of my youth are gone.” She died, 
September, 1833. Miss More amassed by her numerous 
writings upwards of one hundred thousand dollars. She 
erected a number of schools in districts where there were 
no resident clergymen, and it is said that no less than 
twelve hundred children received through her instrumen- 
tality and that of her sisters, the benefits of a moral and 
religious education. 



Miss Hannah More. 














































































\ 





























• V 






- • 




























































MISS HANNAH MORE. 


255 


HANNAH MORE TO MARTHA MORE. # 

Fulham Palace, May, 1797. 

I am just come from attending the royal nuptials at St 
James’s. It was, indeed, a most august spectacle. If, 
indeed, it had been only the spectacle and the procession 
which I could have seen, I should have had little curiosity; 
but the bishop, who has the management of the whole 
chapel, secured me a place with Mrs. Porteous so near 
the altar that I could hear every word distinctly. The 
royal bride behaved with great feeling and modesty; the 
Prince of Wurtemberg had also a very becoming solem- 
nity in his behavior. The King and Queen wept, but 
took great pains to restrain themselves. As I looked at 
the sixteen handsome and magnificently dressed royals 
sitting round the altar, I could not help thinking how 
many plans were perhaps at that very moment forming 
for their destruction; for the bad news from Ireland had 
just arrived. They talk of the number of acknowledged 
malcontents being 150,000, but I believe not a large part 
of that number have arms. I forgot to say that the King 
gave his daughter away, and it was really very affecting. 
The archbishop read the service with great emphasis and 
solemnity. The newspapers will have described all the 
crape, and the foils, and the feathers, and the diamonds, 
etc. We were four hours in chapel. 

Lord Oxford’s executors, Mrs. Darner and Lord Frede- 
rick Campbell, have sent me word they will return all my 
letters, which they have found carefully preserved. I am 
also applied to in form to consent to give up such of his 
letters to me as are fit for publication. I have told them 
how extremely careful I am as to the publication of let- 
ters, and that I cannot make any positive engagement; 
but if, when I get to Cowslip Green,* I should find, in 
looking them over, that any are quite disencumbered of 
private history, private characters, etc., I probably shall 
not withhold those in my possession ; but I am persuaded 


* Her beautiful residence iu the neighborhood of Bristol, 


256 


LOYE IN LETTEKS. 


that, after they are reduced as much as will be necessary, 
there will be little left for publication. 

I dined one day at Admiral Gambier’s, my kindly-at- 
tached friend with whom I spent so many pleasant days 
at Teston, to meet Sir Charles Middleton, who really 
brings a comfortable account of Mrs. Bouverie, and I 
begin to take hope about her. 

The “ Morning Chronicle,” and other pious newspapers , 
have labored to throw such a stigma on the association 
for the better observation of Sunday, that the timid great 
are sheering off, and very few, indeed, have signed. It 
has, however, led to so much talk and discussion on the 
subject as to produce a very considerable effect, and 
a number of high people have said that though they will 
not bind themselves in form, they will conform to the 
spirit of the resolution. I doubt, however, whether those 
who show a timidity so little creditable to them, will do 
much. The Duchess-Dowager of Beaufort, with her usual 
kindness to me, said if I wished she would certainly sign, 
otherwise she thought such an old woman could add no 
credit to it; but I suggested that her high rank might 
attract others. Friday I dined at the Bishop of Lon- 
don’s, and spent the evening at Gloucester House. I 
know not whether it comes under the act of treason or 
misprision of treason, to go to a royal house in colors, for 
people are in such deep mourning as to wear black hand- 
kerchiefs and gloves. It is not, however, universal; for, 
at a small party on Saturday, at Mr. M. Montagu’s, many 
were in colors. I met there Lord St. Helens, Mr. King, 
the American Minister, and others of that stamp. 

I was much affected at the death of poor Mason. The 
Bishop of London was just reading us a sonnet he had 
sent him on his seventy-second birthday, rejoicing in his 
unimpaired strength and faculties; it ended with saying 
that he had still a muse able to praise his Saviour and 
his God, when the account of his death came. It was 
pleasing to find his last poetical sentiments had been so 
devout. I would that more of his writings had expressed 
the same strain of devotion, though I have no doubt of 
his having been piously disposed; but the Warburtonian 
school was not favorable to a devotional spirit. I used 


MISS II ANN All MORE. 257 

to be pleased with his turn of conversation, which was 
rather of a peculiar cast. 

I have been meeting Mr. Smelt, who, at seventy-two, is 
come up to equip himself for entering into the military. 
There is patriotism for you ! I dined yesterday with 
Mrs. Goodenough, the accomplished sister of the 
speaker. 




GOETHE AND BETTINE BRENTANO. 


Among the most celebrated names in European litera- 
ture is that of Johann Wolfgang yon Goethe, a poet who 
united, in an extraordinary degree, power of imagination 
and power of expression, and who, not less remarkable 
for versatility than for vigor, produced, by the exertions of 
sixty years, works which exemplify, in one shape or ano- 
ther, every possible form and kind of poetry. He was bom 
at Frankfort-on-the-Maine, August 28th, 1749, and died at 
Weimar, energetic to the last both in body and mind, 
March 22d, 1833. His “ Correspondence with a Child,” 
has attained a wide popularity. When it took place 
Goethe was fifty-eight, and Befctine, although a child in 
appearance, was a woman in years ; one of those wild, 
capricious creatures who could venture anything in defi- 
ance of conventionalisms. Amid much nonsense these 
letters display much genius and poetical feeling and fancy. 
Bettine’s passion for Goethe must be regarded as alto- 
gether of an ideal nature ; composed of intellect rather 
than of passion. Her feverish imagination seized upon 
the merest trifles and clothed them with the wildest ro- 
mance. A modern critic has sought to throw discredit 
upon this correspondence, styling it “ a romance which 
has only borrowed from reality the time, place, and cir- 
cumstance.” Be that as it may, these letters certainly 
display, in a singular manner, one among the many phases 
peculiar to the passion of love. 


GOETHE AND BETTINE BRENTANO. 


259 


I. 

BETTINE TO GOETHE. 

If I allowed my heart to pour itself through my pen, 
thou wouldst throw many a page of mine aside ; for of thee 
and of me, and of my love alone, this would be the well- 
known and eternal subject. 

I have it at my fingers’ ends, and feel that I must re- 
late to thee what I dreamt of thee last night, not consid- 
ering that thou art here in the world for other ends. I 
have often the same dream ; and it has already cost me 
much consideration why my soul always holds commun- 
ion with thee under the same conditions ; it is as if I 
would dance before thee. I am clothed ethereally. I have 
a feeling that I could succeed in every attempt. The crowd 
surround me ; I search for thee ; there thou art, sitting 
quietly opposite to me; it is as if thou didst not mark me, 
but wert otherwise employed. Now I step before thee gold- 
en-shoed, my silver arms hanging negligently, and there 
wait ; then thou liftest up thy head, thy gaze fixes invol- 
untarily upon me. With slow steps I draw magic circles: 
thy eye leaves me no more ; thou art compelled to follow 
me wherever I turn ; and I feel the triumph of success. 
In the dance I show thee all that which thou couldst scarce 
forebode, and thou wonderest at the wisdom which I 
dance before thee. Soon I throw off my airy robe, and 
show thee my wings, and rise aloft ; then I please myself 
as thy eye follows me ; then I float down again, and sink 
into thy embracing arms ; then thou breathest forth 
sighs, and quite penetrated, lookest up to me. Waking 
from these dreams, I return to mankind as from a far 
distance ; their voices seem strange to me, and their fea- 
tures also. And now let me confess that, at this confes- 
sion of my dreams, my tears flow. Once you sang for 
me — 

“ O let me seem, till I become. Put not off my garment white.” 

These magic charms, these magic powers are my white 
robe. I also entreat that it may continue mine till I be 
changed. But Ulster ! this foreboding will not be dis- 


260 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


puted, that this white robe will be put off from me, and 
that I shall fall into the common every-day life ; and that 
this world, in which my senses live, will sink down ; that 
which 1 ought protectingly to preserve, I shall betray ; 
there where I ought patiently to submit, I shall seek re- 
venge ; and there, where my artless childlike wisdom 
beckons, there I shall bid defiance, and lay claim to a 
higher knowledge ; but the most mournful will be, that 
I, like all the rest, shall burden with the name of sin that 
which is none ; and for this I shall be rightly served. 
Thou art my protecting altar ; to thee will I flee ; this 
love, this mighty love, which rules between us, and the 
knowledge which it imparts to me, and the revelations — 
they shall be my protecting walls, they will free me from 
those who would judge me. Thy Child. 


n. 

August 1st, at Night. 

My Friend : I am alone ; all things sleep, and the 
thought that it is so lately since I was together with 
thee, keeps me waking. Perhaps, Goethe, this was the 
highest event of my life ; perhaps it was the richest, 
most blissful moment ; brighter days shall never come to 
me — I would refuse them. 

It was indeed a “last kiss,” with which I was com- 
pelled to part, for I believed I must forever hang upon 
thy lips; and as I drove through the walks and trees, 
under which we had wandered together, I thought I 
must hold fast by each trunk ; but they disappeared ; 
the green, well-known spaces melted in the distance ; 
the loved meadows, and thy dwelling, were long faded 
away, and the blue distance seemed alone to keep watch 
over the enigma of my life. But even the distance was 
lost; and now nothing was left me but my ardent long- 
ing, and my tears flowed at this parting. Ah ! then I 
reflected upon all : how thou hast wandered with me in 


GOETHE AND BETTINE BRENTANO. 


261 


the night hours, and hast smiled upon me, as I inter- 
preted the cloud-pictures, and my love, and my beautiful 
dreams, and hast listened with me to the whisperings 
of the leaves in the night-wind, to the stillness of the 
distant, far extended night, and hast loved me, that I 
know. As thou leddest me by the hand along the path, 
I perceived in thy breath, in the tone of thy voice — in 
something (how shall I describe it to thee) which 
breathed around me, that thou receivedst me to an in- 
ward, a secret life, and in this moment thou hadst de- 
voted thyself to me alone, coveting no more than to be with 
me ; and of all this, who shall rob me ? What have I 
lost ? My friend ! I have all that I have ever enjoyed; and 
wherever I go, my happiness is my home. 

How the rain-drops rattle against the small round 
windows, and how fearfully the wind roars ! I had al- 
ready lain in bed, and turned myself on my side, and 
wished to sleep in thinking on thee in thee. What does 
in mean — “ To sleep in the Lord ?” This saying often 
occurs to me, when, between sleeping and waking, I 
feel myself busy with thee. I know well how it is ; the 
whole earthly day passes away from him who loves, as 
this earthly life does, from the soul. She is laid claim 
to here and there, and though she promises not to lose 
sight of herself, yet at last she has marked her way 
through the web of time, and always under the secret 
condition of holding at one time communion with the 
beloved. But the hours, in passing by, lay each their 
request or command upon her; and there is a resistless 
will in man, which constrains him to betake himself to 
everything ; this power he allows to have sway over him, 
as the sacrifice allows the sway which it knows conducts 
it to the altar. And thus the soul sleeps in the Lord, 
wearied of its whole life-time, which was its tyrant, and 
now lets fall the sceptre. Then divine dreams arise and 
take her to their lap, and bemantle her; and their magic 
vapors become continually fuller, and close around the 
soul, that she knows herself no more ; this is her rest in 
the grave. Thus every night dreams arise, when I will 
think of thee, and allow myself, without opposition, to be 
cradled therein; for I feel that my bed of clouds rises 
upwards with me I 


262 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


m. 

Thou knowest my heart ; thou knowest that all there 
is desire, thought, boding, and longing ; thou livest 
among spirits, and they give thee divine wisdom. Thou 
must nourish me ; thou givest all that in advance which 
I do not understand to ask. My mind has a small em- 
brace, my love a large one ; thou must bring them to a 
balance. Love cannot be quiet till the mind matches its 
growth; thou art matched to my love ; thou art friendly, 
kind, indulgent : let me know when my heart is off the 
balance. I understand thy silent signs. 

A look from thy eyes into mine, a kiss from thee upon 
my lips, instructs me in all, what might seem delightful 
to learn, to one who, like me, had experience from those. 
I am far from thee; mine are become strange to me. I 
must ever return in thought to that hour, when thou 
holdest me in the soft fold of thy arm. Then I begin 
to weep, but the tears dry again unawares. Yes, he 
reaches with his love (thus I think) over to me in this 
concealed stillness ; and should not I, with my eternal 
undisturbed longing, reach to him in the distance ? Ah, 
conceive what my heart has to say to thee; it overflows 
with soft sighs, all whisper to thee. Be my only happi- 
ness on earth thy friendly will to me. O, dear friend 1 
give me but a sign that thou art conscious of me. 


IV. 

What shall I write to thee, since I am sad, and have 
nothing new or welcome to say ? Bather would I at once 
send the white paper instead of first covering it with let- 
ters, which do not always say what I wish; and that thou 
shouldst fill it up at thy leisure, and make me but too 
happy, and send it back to me; and when I then see 
the blue cover, and tear it open — curiously hasty, as 


GOETHE AND BETTINE BRENT ANO. 2)3 

longing is always expectant of bliss — and I should then 
read what once charmed me from thy lips. “Dear child, 
my gentle heart, my only love, little darling;” the friendly 
words with which thou spoiledst me, soothing me the 
while so kindly. Ah, more I would not ask, I should 
have all again ; even thy whisper I should read there, 
with which thou softly pouredst into my soul all that was 
most lovely, and madest me forever beautiful to myself. 
As I passed through the walks on thy arm, — ah, how 
long does it seem ! — I was contented, all wishes were laid 
to sleep ; they had, like the mountains, enveloped color 
and form in mist. I thought thus it would glide, and 
ever on, without much labor, from the land to the deep 
sea, bold and proud, with unfolded flags and fresh 
breeze. * * * He who would be happy, becomes so 

timid; the heart, trembling, parts with happiness ere it 
has dared a welcome. I also feel that I am not matched 
for my happiness; what a power of senses to comprehend 
thee. Love must become a mastership; to want the pos- 
session of that which is to be loved, in the common un- 
derstanding, is unworthy of eternal love, and wrecks 
each moment on the slightest occurrence. That is my task, 
that I appropriate myself to thee, but will not possess 
thee — thou most to be desired ! 

I am still so young, that it may be easily pardoned if 
I am ignorant. Ah ! I have no soiil for knowledge ; I 
feel I cannot learn what I do not know; I must wait for 
it, as the prophet in the wilderness waits for the ravens 
to bring him food. The simile is not so unapt ; nourish- 
ment is borne to my spirit through the air — often just as 
it is on the point of starvation. 

Since I have loved thee, something unattainable floats 
in my spirit — a mystery which nourishes me. As the ripe 
fruit falls from the tree, so here thoughts fall to me, 
which refresh and invigorate me. Oh, Goethe ! had the 
fountain a soul, it could not hasten more full of expecta- 
tion on to light, to rise again, than I with foreseeing cer- 
tainty hasten on to meet this new life which has been 
given me through thee, and which gives me to know 
that a higher impulse of life will burst the prison, not 
sparing the rest and ease of former days, which by fer- 
menting inspiration it destroys. This lofty fate, the lov- 


264 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


ing spirit evades as little as the seed evades the blossom, 
when it once lies in fresh earth. Thus I feel myself in 
thee, thou fruitful blessed soil ! I can say what it is 
when the germ bursts the hard rind — it is painful ; the 
smiling children of spring are brought forth amid tears. 


V. 


GOETHE TO BETTTNE. 

Thou art a sweet-minded child; I read thy dear letters 
with inward pleasure, and shall surely always read them 
again with the same enjoyment. Thy pictures of what 
has happened to thee, with all inward feelings of tender- 
ness, and what thy witty demon inspires thee with, are 
real original sketches, which in the midst of more serious 
occupations cannot be denied their high interests; take 
it therefore as a hearty truth, when I thank thee for 
them. Preserve thy confidence in me, and let it, if pos- 
sible, increase. Thou wilt always be, and remain to me, 
what thou now art. How can one requite thee, except 
by being willing to be enriched with all thy good gifts. 
Thou thyself knowest how much thou art to my mother ; 
her letters overflow with praise and love. Continue to 
dedicate lovely monuments of remembrance to the fleet- 
ing moments of thy good fortune. I cannot promise thee 
that I will not presume to work out themes so high-gifted 
and full of life, if they still speak as truly and warmly to 
thy heart. 

The grapes at my window, which, before their blossom, 
and now a second time, were witnesses of thy friendly 
vision, smell in their full ripeness; I will not pluck them 
without thinking of thee. Write to me soon, and love 
me! G. 


GOETHE AND BETTINE BRENTANO. 


265 


VI 

BETTINE TO GOETHE. 

No tree’s fresh verdure cools so much; no fountain so 
quenches the thirst; sunlight, moonlight, and thousands 
of stars do not so lighten darkness, as you lighten my 
heart. Ah, to be one moment near you has so much 
eternity in itself, that such a moment dallies as it were 
with eternity, taking it prisoner (only in sport), lets it 
loose again to capture it, and what joy should I not meet 
in eternity, since your eternal spirit, your eternal kind- 
ness, receives me into their glory? 

The poem belongs to the world, not to me, for should 
I call it mine, it would consume my heart. 

I am timid in love, I doubt you each moment, else I 
should already have been with you ; I cannot conceive 
(because it is too great) that I am of sufficient worth to 
you, to dare to be with you. 

Because I know you, I fear death. The Greeks would 
not die without having seen Jupiter Olympus, how much 
less can I be willing to leave this fair world, since it has 
been prophesied me from your lips that you will yet re- 
ceive me with open arms. 

Allow me, yea, I demand, that I breathe the same air 
with you, that I daily see you before my eyes, that I 
search out that book which banishes from me the god of 
death. 

Goethe ! you are all ; you give again what the world, 
what the sad times steal ; since you can with tranquil 
look so richly give, why should not I with confidence de- 
sire ? This whole time I have not been in the open air ; 
the mountain-chain, the only view which one has from 
here, was often red with the flames of war, and I have 
not dared any more to turn my look there, where the 
devil is strangling a lamb, where the only liberty of an 
independent people inflames itself and consumes within 
itself. These men, who with cold blood and in security 
stride over tremendous chasms, who do not know giddi- 
ness, make all others, who from their heights look down 
upon them, giddy; they are a people who take no care 


266 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


for the tnorrow, in whose hands God, exactly at the hour 
of hunger, places food, who, like the eagles, rest upon the 
loftiest rock pinnacles, above the mist, and even so throne 
themselves above the mists of time ; who rather sink in 
light than seek an uncertain being in darkness. O ! En- 
thusiasm of our own free will ! how great art thou, for 
thou concentratest into one moment all the enjoyment 
which is spread over a whole life ; thence for such a mo- 
ment may life well be ventured ; but my own will is to 
see you will one such moment embrace within itself, and 
therefore beyond this I desire nothing more. 

* * * Do you know! no one is thoroughly ac- 

quainted with ideal love; each one believes in common 
love; and thus cherishes and grants not the good fortune 
which springs from the loftier one, or which through it 
might reach the end. Whatever I shall gain, may it be 
by this ideal love; it bursts all bars to new worlds of art, 
and divination and poesy; yes, naturally, as it only feels 
itself satisfied in a more elevated sense, so it can only 
live in a more lofty element. 

* * * Who will set bounds to love ? Who can set 

bounds to the spirit ? WIlo has ever loved that reserved 
anything to himself ? Reservation is self-love. Earthly 
life is a prison, .the key to liberty is love, it leads us out 
of earthly into heavenly life. Who can be set free from 
himself without love ? the flames devour what is earthly, 
in order to win a boundless space for its spirit, which 
soars into ether; the sigh which dissolves in divinity has 
no limit. The spirit alone has eternal efficacy, eternal 
life ; all else dies. Good-night, good-night, it is near the 
hour of spirits. 


vn. 

GOETHE TO BETTINE. 

What can one say and give to thee, which is not al- 
ready in a more beautiful way become thine own ? One 


GOETHE AND BETTlNE BRENTANO. 


267 


must be silent and give thee thy way. When an oppor- 
tunity offers to beg something of thee, then, one may let 
his thanks for the much which has unexpectedly been 
given through the richness of thy love, flow in the same 
stream. That thou cherishest, my mother, I would fain 
with my whole heart requite thee; from yonder a sharp 
breeze blew upon me, and now that I know thou art with 
her, I feel safe and warm. 

I do not say to thee “ come,” I will not have the little 
bird disturbed from its nest; but the accident would not 
be unwelcome to me, which should make use of storm 
and tempest to bring it safely beneath my roof. At any 
rate, dearest Bettine, remember that thou art on the road 
to spoil me. Goethe. 


vm. 

My dear child ! I reproach myself that I have not sooner 
given thee a proof, how full of enjoyment, how refreshing 
it is to me, to be able to view the rich life which glows in 
thy heart. Be it a want in myself, that I can say to thee 
but little — then is it want of composure under all which 
thou impartest to me. 

I write in haste, for I fear to tarry there, where such 
abundance is poured upon me. Continue to make thy 
home with my mother, thou art become too dear to her, 
that she would miss thee, and reckon upon my love and 
thn.nkfl. GOETHE. 


COMTE DE MIRABEAU. 


The French Revolution produced three great men — 
Danton, Napoleon, and Honore Gabriel Riquetti, Comte 
de Mirabeau, who was born at Bignon, near Nemours, in 
1749. Though the family was established in Provence, it 
was of Italian origin, and the great orator and first-leader 
of the Revolution derived from his ancestry all the genius 
and passion which mark the race. At the age of seven- 
teen his father, the Marquis de Mirabeau, endeavored to 
reform him by a two years’ imprisonment in the isle of 
Rhe, and he was consigned to the fortress there under 
the authority of a lettre de cachet. He was a second time 
imprisoned in a fortress in the Jura Mountains, from 
which place he escaped, carrying with him Sophia de 
Ruffey, wife of the Marquis de Monnier, the only being 
whom he ever really loved, and whose loss embittered all 
his after life, if it did not fire his genius and render him 
the reckless man so well known to history. The lovers 
fled to Holland, where Mirabeau wrote for the booksellers 
as a means of subsistence. Says Carlyle, “The wild 
man and his beautiful, sad, heroic woman lived out their 
romance of reality as well as was to be expected. Hot 
tempers go not always softly together; neither did the 
course of true love, either in wedlock or in elopement, 
ever run smooth. Yet it did run in this instance, copious 
if not smooth, with quarrel and reconcilement, tears and 


COMTE DE MIRABEAU. 


269 


heart effusion; sharp tropical squalls, and also the gor- 
geous effulgence and exuberance of general tropical 
weather. It was like a little Paphos islet in the middle 
of blackness; the very danger and despair that environed 
it made the islet blissful. Gabriel toils for Dutch book- 
sellers, Sophie sews and scours beside him, with her soft 
fingers, not grudging ft, in hard toils, in trembling joys 
begirt with terrors — with one terror, that of being 
parted.” Their days roll swiftly on for eight months, 
when Mirabeau was again arrested, and conveyed to Vin- 
cennes. The lovers never met again. Lenoir, the keeper 
of the prison, allowed Mirabeau to correspond with 
Sophie, on condition that the letters should be inspected 
by him, and be returned into his keeping. The letters 
lay in Lenoir’s desk, forgotten; but were found by Pro- 
cureur Manuel, in 1792, “ when so many desks flew open, 
and by him given to the world. A book which fair sensi- 
bility loves to weep over. Good love letters of their 
kind, notwithstanding.” 


L 

MIRABEAU TO SOPHIA DE MONNIER. 

Oh no, my love ! I cannot believe you have been indif- 
ferent to’ the dreadful silence that has enveloped us for 
the last two months. Knowing you so well as I do, how 
could I avoid having confidence in your charming frank- 
ness, or being persuaded by your bitter complaints, your 
continued perplexity, your expressions so strong yet so 
simple, so varied yet so natural ? Ah ! I feel it is not I 
alone who have been unhappy, and notwithstanding the 
distractions around you, you have been no happier than 
myself. I should be very cruel to myself, dearest, if I 
did not believe in your love. No other blessing, no other 
consolation, no other hope remains to me. Perhaps you 
think I should be only unjust to myself, that it would be 


270 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


ungrateful to doubt. But beware, dearest love, for as 
past love is proved by past conduct, so, doubtless, only 
the present can prove the present. Assuredly I have the 
highest opinion of you that ever lover had of woman. I 
have told you a hundred times that I am more enamored 
of your virtues than of your charms. After this very 
formal declaration, I think you can, and ought, to pardon 
me the only fears I entertain respecting the little I feel 
to deserve. You are so young, so troubled, so, unhappy. 
I am so fond, and consequently so exacting through the 
depth of my affection, that it is not surprising I tremble 
sometimes; yet only when you are silent, when you do 
not soothe the heart that beats only for you. You may 
perceive by what I have written to you during eight 
months, how you can at pleasure calm my head and heart. 
I do not suppose my heart to be more capacious than 
your own. Who so well as your Gabriel knows all your 
sensibility, that inexhaustible sensibility, which has made, 
which still makes, and will always make my happiness ? 
But permit me to assure you that I love you much more 
than you can possibly love me, because you are infinitely 
more amiable than I am, and can command and inspire 
more love than I can. Besides, I have more discernment 
than you; for putting aside, if possible, the preposses- 
sions of love, which are common to us both, I know 
women much better than you can possibly know men. 
True it is, there is no one capable of greater devotion, or 
of making greater sacrifices, than I, and particularly no 
one capable of a love so exclusive as mine, because the 
practice of deceiving women deprives men of the power 
of being constant to them ; while this practice itself makes 
me sigh for such a friend as you, which I never expected 
to find, and which I well know how to appreciate because 
I so much desired it. But the world is full of men more 
amiable than ever I can be, sfeice the storms of adversity 
have blown upon me: never were turn of mind, way of 
thinking, or character better calculated to captivate me 
than thine. I could not love a woman who was not in- 
telligent, for I must reason with my companion, but an 
intellectual woman would fatigue me. Affectation, in my 
opinion, is to nature what rouge and chalk are to beauty, 
that is, not only useless, but injurious to what they seek 


COMTE DE MIRABEAU. 


271 


to adorn. I must have a mind natural but delicate: 
strong but lively. I have so few common prejudices, I 
think so little like the rest of the world, that a literary 
woman, great in little things, and tyrannized over by con- 
ventionality, would never suit me. You I found strong, 
energetic, resolute, and decided. That was not all. My 
character is unequal, my susceptibility prodigious, my vi- 
vacity enormous. I require therefore a kind and indul- 
gent woman to please me, and I could not expect to find 
these valuable qualities combined with rarer virtues, and 
which might be regarded even as incompatible : neverthe- 
less, O my love, I have found all this and more united in 
you. Think then what you must be to me: the whole 
edifice of my happiness is built upon you. Do not think 
it foolish that I tremble at the bare idea of a peril that 
appears to threaten me : nor that I consider you as a good, 
infinitely more precious to me than I can be to you. My 
character was formed, yours was not; my principles were 
fixed before you had thought of the necessity of forming 
any. You might have found in the world another kind 
of attachment and happiness than that you have enjoyed 
in your Gabriel, but Sophie was indispensable to my hap- 
piness; she alone could ensure it. 


1L 

17th Mabch, 1778. 

My Love : I have received your letter, your delightful 
letter, and pressed it a thousand times to my fevered lips 
whither my heart had wandered. Dear Sophie! how 
natural and touching is everything you write! how well 
you know the way to the heart of your dearest friend. 
My only love ! but this letter, which makes me so happy, 
is sad. You will well understand what I mean by this. 
I know only too well that you cannot be otherwise than 
sad: but you appear to me to be troubled also; if not 
with my feelings, at least with my thoughts. You, my 
dearest, my all ! do you not know that I can doubt 


272 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


neither thy love, thy constancy, thy delicacy, nor the 
truth of thy attentions? Do I not revere as much as I 
adore you ? Ah, if I doubted my Sophie, why should I 
live ? If, dearest, any expressions in my last appear am- 
biguous to you, it is because I had reason to fear that 
the slightest want of circumspection would deprive you 
of it: and thus the pleasure of receiving tidings from you 
was embittered to me by the fear that you might possibly 
be less fortunate. My love, I can doubtless, without in- 
curring this risk, repeat to you what I wrote about you 
to one who of all men was the least likely to understand 
it. This fragment will show you in few words my con- 
fession of faith in love, and be assured that the senti- 
ments it expresses are as living as your Gabriel. 

I wrote: “I cannot believe but that I shall be excused 
for loving what is amiable. What man can be severe 
against a passion which, more or less intense, is common 
to all mankind ? I had been very unfortunate, and mis- 
fortune increases our sensibility. She exhibited an in- 
terest in me, with all those charms that can enduringly 
captivate me, those of a generous soul, and a happy mind. 
I sought a comforter, and what a more delightful consoler 
than love ? Till then I had known only that intercourse 
of gallantry which is not love, but only its shadow; a 
cold passion when compared with what now seized upon 
me. I possess the qualities and defects of my tempera- 
ment. If it renders me excessively susceptible, it forms 
the burning heart which nourishes my inexpressible ten- 
derness. It was not the strong invitation of nature, 
based upon the delights attached to the pleasures of the 
senses that captivated and subdued me; it was not even 
the desire of pleasing a judge possessed of exquisite 
taste. I had too much feeling for self-love to find a place. 
Conventionality, conformity of tastes, the want of inti- 
macy, or of a confidante (who is always more master than 
servant), went almost for nothing in my sight. My soul 
was stirred by most powerful attractions. I met a woman 
who, very different from myself, had all the virtues inher- 
ent to her temperament with none of its defects: §he is 
gentle but not timid, nor indifferent like most of those 
who are naturally gentle. She is sensitive but not weak; 
she is generous, but her generosity excludes neither firm- 


COMTE DE MIRABEAU. 


273 


ness nor discernment. Alas ! she has all the virtues, I 
have all the faults. When I met this lovely, adorable 
woman, she combined all the scattered rays of my feverish 
sensibility. I met her, and my heart, imperiously sub- 
dued, was fixed, and fixed forever. I observed her under 
every aspect. I studied her profoundly. I tarried too 
long before this delightful picture. I read her heart — 
that heart formed by nature in one of her grandest mo- 
ments. If it was a crime not to have resisted so potent 
a charmer, it was not the crime of my will.” I cannot 
go on, my pet. Recognize the pencil of your friend when 
guided by love; but particularly recognize my sincere 
feelings, and add to these all the many subsequent events 
which have claimed my deepest gratitude, and all the 
affections of my heart, if you had not already entirely 
appropriated them. 

If, dearest, you ever find in my letters a gloomy tone, 
attribute it to my imprisonment in this place, to my 
troubles, but not to any uneasiness I feel as to your feel- 
ings for me. Should I not dishonor myself by suspecting 
you? 


NELSON AND LADY HAMILTON. 


Horatio Nelson, the son of an English clergyman, was 
bom at Burnham Thorpe, in Norfolk, September 29, 1758. 
An uncle by the mother’s side commanded a sixty-four 
gun ship, on board of which young Nelson was entered, 
at the same age at which Admiral Farragut began his 
gallant career. In 1777 he was made a lieutenant, and 
two years later he obtained the rank of captain. He 
took a distinguished part in Jervis’s victory over the 
Spanish fleet off Cape St. Vincent, being in command 
of a seventy-four in that action : and boarded and cap- 
tured two of the enemy’s large ships. He led the boar- 
ders himself from the first of these prizes to the other, 
uttering the well known words, “Westminster Abbey or 
Victory !” Nelson was now knighted and made a rear- 
admiral. Before he went to the Mediterranean, in 1798, 
he had been actually personally engaged with the enemy 
one hundred and twenty times, in which service he had 
lost his right eye, and his right arm. Nelson won the 
battle of the Nile, for which he was raised to the peerage, 
and honors of the highest character were heaped on him 
by every Court that was engaged in war with France. 
In October, 1805, he won the famous naval battle of 
Trafalgar, in which he was mortally wounded, but sur- 
vived long enough to know that the victory was complete. 
As Farragut takes rank above all American Admirals, so 
stands Nelson, the writer of the following letters, above 


NELSON AND LADY HAMILTON. 


275 


all British Sailors. They were addressed to Emma, 
second wife of Sir William Hamilton, a woman of extra- 
ordinary beauty, and still more remarkable for her powers 
of fascination, who became the Great Admiral's mistress. 
A portrait of Lady Hamilton hung in his cabin : and no 
Catholic ever beheld the picture of his patron saint with 
devouter reverence. The romantic passion with which 
Nelson regarded it amounted almost to superstition: and 
when the painting was taken down in clearing for his last 
action, he directed the men who removed it to “ take care 
of his guardian angel.” In this manner he frequently 
spoke of it as if he believed there was a virtue in the 
image. He wore a miniature of her next his heart. 
When Nelson had seen that all the dispositions for the 
coming conflict were made, and that all was as it should 
be, he retired to his cabin and wrote the following prayer 
in his diary. 

“May the great God, whom I worship, grant to my 
country, and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great 
and glorious victory, and may no misconduct in any one 
tarnish it; and may humanity after victory be the pre- 
dominant feature in the British fleet! For myself, indi- 
vidually, I commit my life to Him that made me; and 
may His blessing alight on my endeavors for serving my 
country faithfully ! To Him I resign myself, and the just 
cause which is intrusted to me to defend. Amen, Amen, 
Amen.” 

Having thus discharged his devotional duties, Nelson 
annexed, in the same diary, the following remarkable 
writing: 

“ October 21, 1805 . — Then in sight of the combined fleets of 
France and Spain , distant about ten miles . 

“Whereas the eminent services of Emma Hamilton, 
widow of the Bight Honorable Sir William Hamilton, 
have been of the very greatest service to my king and 
country, to my knowledge, without ever receiving any 
reward from either our king or county; 


276 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


“ First, that she obtained the King of Spain’s letter, in 
1796, to his brother the King of Naples, acquainting him 
of his intention to declare war against England; from 
which letter the ministry sent out orders to the then Sir 
John Jervis, to strike a stroke, if opportunity offered, 
against either the arsenals of Spain or her fleets. That 
neither of these was done is not the fault of Lady Hamil- 
ton; the opportunity might have been offered. 

“ Secondly, the British fleet under my command could 
never have returned the second time to Egypt, had not 
Lady Hamilton’s influence with the Queen of Naples 
caused letters to be written to the governor of Syracuse, 
that he was to encourage the fleet’s being supplied with 
every thing, should they put into any port in Sicily. We 
put into Syracuse, and received every supply; went to 
Egypt, and destroyed the French fleet. 

“ Could I have rewarded these services, I would not now 
call upon my country; but as that has not been in my 
power, I leave Emma Lady Hamilton, therefore, a legacy 
to my king and country, that they will give her an ample 
provision to maintain her rank in life. 

“I also leave to the beneficence of my country my 
adopted daughter, Horatia Nelson Thompson, and I de- 
sire she will use in future the name of Nelson only. 

“ These are the only favors I ask of my king and coun- 
try, at this moment when I am going to fight their battle. 
May God bless my king and country, and all those I hold 
dear! My relations it is needless to mention; they will, 
of course, be amply provided for. 


“Nelson and Bronte. 


Henry Blackwood, 
T. M. Hardy.” 


“Witness, j 


The child of whom this writing speaks, was believed to 
be his daughter, and so, indeed, he called her the last 
time that he pronounced her name. She was then about 
five years old, living at Merton, under Lady Hamilton’s 
care. The last minutes which Nelson passed at Merton 
were employed in praying over this child, as she lay 
sleeping. If ever a man lived and died in earnest, fearless, 
unselfish discharge of his duty to his country, it was the 


NELSON AND LADY HAMILTON. 


27 ? 


victor of the Nile and Trafalgar. His dying words after 
he was struck down on board the flag ship Victory, were, 
“ Thank God, I have done my duty 1” 

\ 

NELSON TO LADY HAMILTON. 

San Joseph, Feb. 16, 1801. 

My dearest Friend : Your letters have made me happy 
to-day ; and never again will I scold unless you begin. 
Therefore pray never do ; my confidence in you is as 

firm as a rock I cannot imagine who can 

have stopped my Sunday’s letter ; that it has been is 
clear, and the seal of the other has been clearly opened, 
but this might have happened from letters sticking to- 
gether. Yours all came safe, but the numbering of them 
will point out directly if one is missing, I do not think 
that anything very particular was in that letter which is 
lost. I send you a few lines wrote in the late gale, 
which, I think, you will not disapprove. 

How interesting your letters are ; you cannot write 
too much or be too particular. 


Though *s polished verse superior shine, 

Though sensibility grace every line, 

Though her soft muse be far above all praise, 
And female tenderness inspire her lays, 

Deign to receive, though unadom’d 
By the poetic art, 

The rude expressions which bespeak 
A sailor’s untaught heart. 

A heart susceptible, sincere, and true, 

A heart by fate and nature tom in two ; 

One half to duty and his country due, 

The other, better half, to love and you. 

Sooner shall Britain’s sons resign 
The empire of the sea, 

Than Henry shall renounce his faith 
And plighted vows to thee. 

And waves on waves shall cease to roll. 
And tides forget to flow, 

Ere thy true Henry’s constant love, 

Or ebb or change shall know. 


278 


LOVE IK LETTERS. 


The letters on service are so numerous, from three 
days* interruption of the post, that I must conclude with 
assuring you that I am for ever your attached, and unal- 
terably yours, Nelson and Bronte. 


n. 


St. George, March, 1801. 

Having, my truly dearest friend, got through a great 
deal of business, I am enabled to do justice to my pri- 
vate feelings, which are fixed ever on you and about you, 
whenever the public service does not arrest my attention. 
I have read all your kind and affectionate letters, and 
have read them frequently over and committed them to 
the flames much against my inclination. There was one 
I rejoiced not to have read at the time. It was where 

you consented to dine and sing with . Thank God 

it was not so. I could not have borne it, and now less 
than ever, but I now know he never can dine with you, 
for you would go out of the house rather than suffer it. 
And as to letting him hear you sing, I only hope he will 
be struck deaf, and you dumb, sooner than such a thing 
should happen ; but I know it now never can. You can- 
not think how my feelings are alive towards you, prob- 
ably more than ever, and they never can be diminished. 
My hearty endeavors shall not be wanting to improve 
and to give us new ties of regard and affection. Eleven 
o’clock, your dear letters just come on board ; they are 
sympathetic with my own feelings, and I trust we shall 
soon meet to part no more. Recollect I am for ever 
yours, aye for ever while life remains. Yours, yours, 
faithfully, Nelson and Bronte. 

I charge my only friend to keep well and think of her 
Nelson’s glory. 


NELSON AND LADY HAMILTON. 


279 


nx 


August 26 , 1803 . 

My Dearest Emma : By the Canopus I have received all 
your truly kind and affectionate letters, from May 20 to 
July 3, with the exception of one, dated May 31, sent to 
Naples. This is the first communication I have had with 
England since we sailed. All your letters, my dear letters, 
are so entertaining, and which paint so clearly what you 
are after, that they give me either the greatest pleasure 
or pain : it is the next best thing to being with you. I 
only desire, my dearest Emma, that you will always 
believe that Nelson’s your own, Nelson’s Alpha and 
Omega is Emma, I cannot alter my affection, and love is 
beyond even this world. Nothing can shake it but your- 
self, and that I will not allow myself to think for a mo- 
ment is possible. I feel that you are the real friend of 
my bosom, and dearer to me than life, and that I am the 
same to you ; but I will have neither P’s or Q’s come 
near you ; no, not the slice of single (Poster. But 
if I was to go on it would argue that want of confidence 
which would be injurious to your honor. I rejoice that 
you have had so pleasant a trip into Norfolk, and I hope 
one day to carry you there by a nearer tie in law, but not 
in love and affection than at present. I wish you would 
never mention that person’s name. It works up your 
anger for no useful purpose. Her good or bad character 
of me or thee no one cares about. This letter will find 
you at dear Merton, where we shall one day meet and be 
truly happy. I do not think it can be a long war, and I 
believe it will be much shorter than people expect, and I 
shall hope to find the new room built, the grounds laid 
out neatly, but not expensively, new Piccadilly gates, 
kitchen garden, &c. Only let us have a plan, and then 
all will go on well. It will be a great source of amuse- 
ment to you, and Horatia shall plant a tree. I dare 
say she will be very busy. Mrs. Nelson will be with 
you, and time will pass away till I have the inexpres- 
sible happiness of arriving at Merton ; even the thought 
of it vibrates through my nerves, for my love for you is 
as unbounded as the ocean. Nelson and Bronte. 


280 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


IV. 

The following exists in Lord Nelson’s autograph. 


LORD NELSON TO HIS GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

From my best cable tho’ I am forced to part, 

I leave my anchor in my Angel’s heart : 

Love, like a pilot, shall the pledge defend, 

And for a prong his happiest quiver lend. 


BURNS AND CLARINDA, 


Scotland, is par excellence , the land of poetry and song, 
and has probably produced a more patriotic and ex- 
tended minstrelsy than any other country. Every dis- 
trict has its poet — every solitary castle and stream — every 
mountain and glen — every bank and brae and burn has 
its song. Songs as imperishable as the heath-covered 
hills. Chief among her children of song is the great 
peasant poet who lived and died within the latter half 
of the eighteenth century. All hearts are his, from the 
highest to the lowest. All that can move to mirth or 
tears are combined in his matchless songs. What poem 
displays greater dignity and seriousness of manner, a 
more noble and reverent spirit than his Cotter’s Satur- 
day Night? What humorous narration in verse to be 
compared to Tam O’Shanter? What piece containing 
such a strange mixture of terror, humor, pity and pathos 
as his Address to the Deil? What song addresses it- 
self so movingly to the old familiar faces and by-gone 
days as Auld Lang Syne ? What convivial melody so 
contagious as Willie brewed a Peck o’ Maut ? What 
more patriotic and soul-stirring words than in his ad- 
dress of Bruce at Bannockburn ? or a strain breathing 
greater contempt of all shams than 


“The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, 
A man’s a man for a’ that.” 



282 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


What love-lyrics so sweet and tender? Byron asserted 
that a single stanza of the song he addressed to Clarinda, 
contained the essence of all the love-songs in the world, 
and Sir Walter Scott said it was worth a thousand ro- 
mances. 

“Had we never loved so kindly, 

Had we never loved so blindly, 

Never met — or never parted, 

We bad ne’er been broken-hearted.” 

Clarinda, to whom this passionate song was addressed, 
when she was on the eve of a voyage to the West Indies, 
in December, 1791, was a name assumed by Agnes 
Craig, the wife of James McLehose, a person of a rov- 
ing disposition, and dissipated habits, who, abandoning 
his wife and children, went to the West Indies to seek 
his fortune. Burns was introduced to her in December, 
1787. She was dazzled with his genius, and he with her 
beauty; the result being a brisk fire of small notes, 
which ere long led to a correspondence under the as- 
sumed names of Sylvander and Clarinda. This inti- 
macy continued till Burns departed from Edinburgh, 
returning to Mossgiel to marry “ my Jean. ” His 
marriage made Clarinda furious — why it should have 
done so is not very clear, for she certainly could not 
hope to marry him, the laws of Scotland allowing her but 
one husband. She never forgave the poet for deserting 
her, though she continued to correspond with him at 
intervals during his brief career, and after his death, 
preserved his letters with jealous care. She died in 1841, 
at the age of eighty-two. When the grave had closed 
over both, the correspondence from which the following 
letters are selected, was published. Burns’s prose may 
be forgotten, but the poems he wrote in honor of 
Clarinda, Highland Mary, Bonnie Jean, Mary Morrison, 


BURNS AND CLARINDA. 


283 


and his numberless other loves and heroines, will be 
cherished and remembered, to quote his own beautiful 
words, 

“While waters wimple to the sea, 

While day blinks in the lift sae hie.” 

and will ever be prized 

“ With earth’s and sea’s rich gems, 

With April’s first-born flowers and all things rare.** 


L 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Saturday Evening. 

I can say with truth, madam, that I never met with a 
person in my life whom I more anxiously wished to meet 
again than yourself. To-night I was to have had 
that very great pleasure. I was intoxicated with the 
idea; but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised 
one of my knees that I can’t stir my leg off the cushion. 
So, if I don’t see you again, I shall not rest in my grave 
for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not seen you 
sooner. I determined to cultivate your friendship with 
the enthusiasm of religion, but thus has Fortune ever 
served me. I cannot bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh 
without seeing you. I know not how to account for it. 
I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often 
mistaken. You are a stranger to me; but I am an odd 
being. Some yet unnamed feelings — things, not princi- 
ples, but better than whims — carry me farther than 
boasted reason ever did a philosopher. 

Farewell! Every happiness be yours, 

Robert Burns. 


284 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


n. 

CLARINDA TO SYLVANDER. 

Inured as I have been to disappointments, I never felt 
more, nor half so severely, for one of the same nature ! 
The cruel cause, too, augments my uneasiness. I trust 
you’ll soon recover it. Meantime, if my sympathy, my 
friendship can alleviate your pain, be assured you possess 
them. I am much flattered at being a favorite of yours. 
Miss Nimmo can tell you how earnestly I had long 
pressed her to make us acquainted. I had a presenti- 
ment that we should derive pleasure from the society of 
each other. To-night I had thought of fifty things to 
say to you; how unfortunate this prevention ! Do not 
accuse Fortune : had I not known she was blind before, 
her ill-usage of you had marked it sufficiently. How- 
ever, she is a fickle beldame, and I’d much rather be in- 
debted to nature. You shall not leave town without see- 
ing me, if I should come along with good Miss Nimmo, 
and call for you. I am determined to see you; and am 
ready to exclaim with Yorick, “ Tut, are we not all rela- 
tions?” We are, indeed, strangers in one sense, but of 
near kin in many respects : those “ nameless feelings ” I 
perfectly comprehend, though the pen of a Locke could 
not define them. Perhaps instinct comes nearer the 
description than either “ principles or whims.” Think 
ye they have any connexion with that “ heavenly light 
which leads astray ?” One thing I know, that they have 
a powerful effect upon me; and are delightful when 
under the check of reason and religion. * * * Par- 

don any little freedoms I take with you ; if they enter- 
tain a heavy hour, they have all the merit I intended. 
Will you let me know, now and then, how your leg is ? 
If I were your sister, I would call and see you; but ’tis a 
censorious world this; and (in this sense) you and I are 
not of the world. Adieu. Keep up your heart; you will 
soon get well, and we shall meet . Farewell. God bless 
you. A. M. 


BURNS AND OLARINDA. 


285 


m. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, my life, you have wounded my soul. Can I 
think of your being unhappy, even though it be not 
described in your pathetic elegance of language, without 
being miserable ? Clarinda, can I bear to be told from 
you that ‘you will not see me to-morrow night — that 
you wish the hour of parting were come ?’ Do not let 
us impose on ourselves by sounds. ***** "Why, 
my love, talk to me in such strong terms, every word of 
which cuts me to the very soul ? You know a hint, the 
slightest signification of your wish, is to me a sacred 
command. 

Be reconciled, my angel, to your God, yourself, and 
me, and I pledge you Sylvander’s honor — an oath I dare- 
say you will trust without reserve — that you shall never- 
more have reason to complain of his conduct. Now, my 
love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted 
looks. * * * I have marked the line of conduct — a 

line I know exactly to your taste — and which I will 
inviolably keep ; but do not you show the least incli- 
nation to make boundaries. Seeming distrust, where you 
know you may confide, is a cruel sin against sensibility. 

“Delicacy, you know, it was which won me to you at 
once ; take care you do not loosen the dearest, most 
sacred tie that unites us.” Clarinda, I would not hare 
stung your soul — I would not have bruised your spirit as 
that harsh, crucifying “ Take care ” did mine; no, not to 
have gained heaven ! Let me again appeal to your dear 
self, if Sylvander, even when he seemingly half transgressed 
the laws of decorum, if he did not show more chastised, 
trembling, faltering delicacy, than the many of the world 
do in keeping these laws? 

Oh Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my 
peace ! I love to madness, and I feel to torture ! Clar- 
inda, how can I forgive myself, that I have ever touched 
a single chord in your bosom with pain ! Would I do it 
willingly ? Would any consideration, any gratification, 
make me do so ? Oh, did you love like me, you would 


286 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


not, you could not, deny or put off a meeting with the 
man who adores you ; who would die a thousand deaths 
before he would injure you, and who must soon bid you 
a long farewell ! 

I had proposed bringing my bosom friend, Mr. Ainslie, 
to-morrow evening, at his strong request, to see you, as 
he has only time to stay with us about ten minutes, for 
an engagement. But I shall hear from you : this after- 
noon, for mercy’s sake !— for, till I hear from you, I am 
wretched. Oh, Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee 
is intwisted and incorporated with my dearest threads of 
life. Sylvandeb. 


IV. 

I have just now received your first letter of yesterday, 
by the careless negligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, 
matters grow very serious with us, then seriously hear 
me, and hear me, heaven! 

I met in you, my dear Clarinda, by far the first of 
womankind, at least to me. I esteemed, I loved you at 
first sight, both of which attachments you have done me 
the honor to return. The longer I am acquainted with 
you, the more innate amiableness and worth I discover in 
you. You have suffered a loss, I confess, for my sake ; 
but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friendship ; if every 
endeavor to be worthy of your friendship ; if a love 
strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of 
religion ; if all these can make anything like a compen- 
sation for the evil I have occasioned you ; if they be 
worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to your 
enjoyments — so help Sylvander, ye powers above, in his 
hour of need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda ! 

I esteem you, I love you as a friend ; I admire you, I 
love you as a woman, beyond any one in all the circle of 
creation. I know I shall continue to esteem you, to love 
you, to pray for you, nay, to pray for myself for your 
sake. 


BURNS AND CLARINDA. 28 1 


Expect me at eight, and believe me to be ever, my 
dearest madam, yours most entirely, 


Sylvandeb. 


y. 


OLARINDA TO SYLVANDEB. 


Friday Evening. 

I wish you had given me a hint, my dear Sylvander, 
that you were to write me only once in a week. Yester- 
day I looked for a letter ; to-day never doubted it ; but 
both days have terminated in disappointment. A thousand 
conjectures have conspired to make me most unhappy. 
Often have I suffered much disquiet from forming the 
idea of such an attention, on such and such an occasion, 
and experienced quite the reverse. But in you, and you 
alone, I have ever found my highest demands of kindness 
accomplished ; nay, even my fondest wishes, not gratified 
only, but anticipated! To what, then, can I attribute 
your not writing me one line since Monday ? 

God forbid your nervous ailment has incapacitated you 
for that office, from which you derived pleasure singly, as 
well as that most delicate of all enjoyments, pleasure 
reflected. To-morrow I shall hope to hear from you. 
Hope, blessed hope, thou balm of every woe, possess and 
fill my bosom with thy benign influence. * * * If I 

don’t hear to-morrow, I shall form dreadful reasons. God 
forbid. Good night, God bless you, prays 

Clarinda. 


VI. 

BURNS TO CLARINDA. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! 

Ae farewell and then forever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; 

Dark despair around benights me. 

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, 

Naething could resist my Nancy; 

But to see her was to love her; 

Love but her, and love forever. 

Had we never loved sae kindly, 

Had we never loved sae blindly, 

Never met — or never parted, 

We had ne’er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 

Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 

Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever, 

Ae farewell, alas! forever! 

Deep in heart-wrung tea *s I’ll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. 



Josephine. 









































NAPOLEON AND JOSEPHINE. 


Napoleon Bonaparte was born at Ajaccio, in Corsica, 
on tbe 5th of February, 1768. His family were respect- 
able but not illustrious, and when in the days of his 
greatness some genealogists tried to flatter him by tracing 
back his pedigree to the Dukes of Treviso, he cut them 
short by saying that his patent of nobility dated from 
the battle of Montenotte, his first victory over the Aus- 
trians in Italy. When twenty-seven years old he married 
Josephine Beauharnais, and soon afterwards, chiefly 
through the influence of Barras, received command of 
the army of Italy. Among the numerous letters written 
by Napoleon to Josephine during the Italian campaign of 
1796, the following are selected as among the longest of 
the series, most of which are very brief. Concerning 
their marriage the following droll but authentic anecdote 
is told. When Bonaparte proposed to Josephine, she 
consulted her lawyer, Monsieur Raquideau, as to her 
union with the young victor 'of St. Booh. “ It’s folly,” 
answered the sage man of law, “ perfect folly to marry a 
young officer without fortune and without future.” But 
Josephine had more confidence still in the oracles of 
Mme Lenormand, the celebrated fortune-teller; or rather, 
she did as people often do after asking advice — she fol- 
lowed her own mind and did well. Bonaparte heard of 
the opinion passed upon him, but made his way in spite 


290 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


of M. Raquideau’s doubts, and the young officer became 
Emperor. But although he had advanced much he had 
forgotten nothing. When he was attired in his corona- 
tion robes, and a few minutes before proceeding to Notre 
Dame, he called out in a voice of thunder: “ Let Raqui- 
deau be brought.” The poor notary thought that he had 
signed his last contract. “ Well,” said the Emperor, as 
soon as he perceived him, “ here is the man without for- 
tune and without future !” and then, after a mischievous 
pause of a few minutes, he turned to the confused lawyer 
and added: “ I name you lawyer to the family.” Jose- 
phine’s letters, unfortunately, have not been preserved: 
they were probably destroyed as soon as received and read 
by Napoleon. Her divorce was urged by the Bonaparte 
family, and by such statesmen as Fouche and Talleyrand, 
for the sake of an heir to the throne, and the consolida- 
tion of the new dynasty; and when resolved upon, she 
meekly retired to Malmaison, and was succeeded by the 
Austrian bride of her husband. Before her departure, 
she drew Napoleon to the window, and pointing to the 
sky, said, prophetically; “ Like those two stars we have 
risen together, and separated we shall fall!” On the 
fourth of April, 1814, Josephine’s prediction was fulfilled, 
and on the twenty-ninth of the month following she 
breathed her last in the arms of her children. Like her 
husband, she was bom for empire; and he, however 
blinded by dynastic ambition, must have lived to feel 
that her divorce was as mistaken in policy as it was in- 
defensible in principle, and cruel in the execution. It is 
singular and only poetical justice to add that Josephine, 
after all, should have given an heir to Napoleon in the 
person of her grandson, the present Emperor, who in 
the year 1867 erected a beautiful statue of the Em- 
press Josephine in the boulevard bearing her name, and 
leading to the buildings of the great Paris Exhibition. 


NAPOLEON AND JOSEPHINE, 


291 


Napoleon died May 5, 1821. His last words were, Tete 
d armee. He was interred in St. Helena, from whence 
his remains were removed to Paris in 1841, and are now 
contained in a magnificent mausoleum under the dome 
of the Invalides, beside the bones of Turenne and Vau- 
ban, the paladins of France. 

L 

NAPOLEON I. TO JOSEPHINE. 

Marmirolo, 17th July, 1796. 

I have received your letter, my dearest love; it has 
filled my heart with joy. I am greatly obliged to you for 
the trouble you have taken to send me all the news; your 
health is doubtless better now. I feel sure you are get- 
ting quite well. Let me strongly recommend you to 
take exercise on horseback. 

I have been very dull ever since we parted. I am 
happy only when with you. I never cease thinking of 
your kisses, your tears, and your amusing little jealousies: 
the charms of the matchless Josephine ever keep my heart 
and feelings warm. When free from care and business, 
what happiness to pass every moment with you, to love 
only you, and to tell it and prove it to you ! I shall send 
you your horse. But I hope you will soon rejoin me. I 
believe I have always loved you, but I think I love you a 
thousand times better now than ever. This proves that 
La Bruyere’s maxim, V amour vient tout d’un coup , is false. 
Everything in nature grows and increases. Ah ! I beg 
of you to let me see some of your defects : be less beau- 
tiful, less graceful, less kind, less good; but especially, 
never be jealous, never weep; your tears distract me, set 
my blood on fire. Believe me, 1 have not a thought ex- 
cept for you, or that you might not know. 

Take repose. Re-establish your health quickly. Come 
to me, and at least, before we die, let us say, We had 
some days of happiness. 

A thousand kisses, the same to Fortune,* in spite of 
her naughtiness. Bonaparte. 


* Josephine’s lap dog. 


292 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


n. 

Brescia, 10th August, 1796. 

1 have arrived at this place, my dearest love, and my 
first thought is of writing to you. Your health and your 
image have occupied all my thoughts on my way hither. 
I shall not be at ease until I receive letters from you. 1 
expect them with the greatest eagerness. It is impossible 
to describe to you my impatience. I feel dull, sad, and 
half sick. If the deepest and tenderest love can make 
you happy, you ought to be so. I am overwhelmed with 
business. 

Adieu, my dear Josephine; love me, take care of your- 
self, and think often, very often, of me. 

Bonaparte. 


III. 


Verona, 17th Sept., 1796. 

I write very often to you, my dear love, but very seldom 
hear from you. You are a fickle, ugly, wicked creature. 
Perfidious ! to deceive a poor husband and ardent lover ! 
Must he forfeit his rights because he is far away, burdened 
with difficulties, cares, and fatigue? Without his Jose- 
phine, without the assurance of her love, what remains 


for him on earth ? What can he do ? A 

thousand loving kisses. Bonaparte. 


IY 

Modena, 17th Oct., 1796. 

The day before yesterday I was all day in the field. 
Yesterday I kept my bed. I have a headache and fever, 
but that does not prevent me writing to my dearest love. 
I have received your letters and pressed them to my lips 
and heart, and the pains of absence and a hundred miles 
of distance have vanished. At this moment I fancy I see 


NAPOLEON AND JOSEPHINE. 


293 


you, not capricious, not cross, but kind and gentle, with 
that unction of goodness which is the exclusive gift of 
my Josephine. But it was only a dream; and you may 
judge from it that my fever has not left me. Your letters 
are as cold as if you were fifty; they are like fifteen years 
after marriage; they exhibit the friendship and feelings 
of the winter of life. Fye! Josephine! This is very 
wrong, very wicked, very treacherous of you. Why do 
you give me so much cause to complain ? Do you no 
longer love me? Eh! is that the fact? Do you hate 
me? Well, I suspect so 

A thousand, thousand kisses, as tender as my heart. 

I am better; I start to-morrow. The English quit the 
Mediterranean. Corsica is ours. Good news for France 
and for the army. Bonaparte. 


Y. 


Verona, 13th Nov. , 1796. 

I don’t love you a bit; on the contrary, I detest you. 
You are an ugly, stupid, wicked hussy. You never write 
to me, and you do not love your husband. You know the 
delight your letters afford me, and yet you send me only 
half a dozen hurried lines. 

Pray, madam, what do you do with yourself all day ? 
What important business is it that prevents your writing 
to your fond lover ? What affection stifles and puts aside 
the love, the tender and constant love, you promised me ? 
Who can this new wonder be, this new lover, that absorbs 
all your time, tyrannizes over your days, and prevents 
you from thinking of your husband? Take care, Jose- 
phine, some fine night, the doors closed, and I’ll surprise 
you. 

But seriously, I am very uneasy, my dear love, at re- 
ceiving no news of you: write me four pages immediately, 
full of those charming things that fill my heart with ten- 
derness and delight. 

I hope to embrace you before long, then I shall cover 
you with a million burning kisses. 

Bonaparte. 


SIR WALTER AND LADY SCOTT. 


From the great border family, now represented by the 
Duke of Buccleugh, there came as an offshoot, in the 
fourteenth century, the family of Harden, the heads of 
which are the barons of Polwarth. The poet’s grand- 
father was a younger son of Scott of Harden, and his 
father, Walter Scott, was an attorney in Edinburgh, 
where the child, who in after times delighted and in- 
structed an admiring world, was born, on the 15th of 
August, 1771. Walter Scott, like Washington, Welling- 
ton, and many other illustrious men, failed to win his 
first love, who rejected the novelist and poet for his rival, 
the philosopher, Dugald Stewart. Twenty-six years after 
the date of his youthful disappointment, he thus com- 
mences a chapter of one of his novels — “ Peveril of the 
Peak:” 

“Ah me ! for aught that ever I could read, 

Could ever hear by tale or history, 

The course of true love never did run smooth ! ” 

Midsummer Night’s Dream. 

“ The celebrated passage which we have prefixed to this 
chapter has, like most observations of the same author, 
its foundation in real experience. The period at which 
love is formed for the first time, and felt most strongly, 
is seldom that at which there is much prospect of its 
being brought to a happy issue. The slate of artificial 


SIR WALTER AND LADY SCOTT. 295 

society opposes many complicated obstructions to early 
marriages; and the chance is very great that such obsta- 
cles prove insurmountable. In fine, there are few men 
who do not look in secret to some period of their youth, 
at which a sincere and early affection was repulsed or 
betrayed, or became abortive from opposing circumstances. 
It is these little passages of secret history which leave a 
tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting us, 
even in the most busy or the most advanced period of 
life, to listen with total indifference to a tale of love.” 
That “ men have died and worms have eaten them, but 
not for love,” was verified in Scott’s case, as in many 
others; for although he suffered keenly, and “ dwindled, 
peaked, and pined,” yet he survived his disappointment. 
The year after the lady of his vows gave her hand to 
Prof. Stewart, Scott met and ere long married Charlotte 
Margaret Carpenter, the daughter of a French refugee, 
whose family was then residing in England. She is de- 
scribed as having “ a form as light as a fairy,” a com- 
plexion of the clearest and lightest olive; eyes large, 
deep-set, and dazzling, of the finest Italian brown; and 
a profusion of silken tresses, black as the raven’s wing. 
We regret that Scott’s letters to his lady-love have not 
been preserved; however, from the following epistles may 
be gleaned the story of the courtship, which terminated 
in the marriage of Walter Scott and Charlotte Carpenter. 
Of all the once numerous family of the illustrious author 
of “ Waverley,” but one representative remains, in the 
person of Mary Monica Hope Scott, a blue-eyed, fair- 
haired girl of fifteen, whose next birthday will be on the 
third of October, 1867. She is now tall and strong, has 
outgrown her former delicacy, and is the very image of 
her great-grandfather. How strangely these old family 
likenesses appear after intervals of several generations ! 


296 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


Many of our readers will remember that Sir "Walter’s 
eldest daughter, Sophia, was married to John Gibson 
Lockhart, in the year 1820. Their youngest daughter 
married James Hope, who has since taken the name of 
Scott, and at present holds and occupies Abbotsford, as 
trustee. Mrs. Hope Scott passed away, a few summers 
since, to join two of her children who preceded her 

“ To the land o’ the leal,” 

leaving Mary Monica sole representative of that noble 
race. Since her death Mr. Hope Scott has married again, 
his present wife being the eldest daughter of the Duke 
of Norfolk. She is a Roman Catholic, and cares nothing 
for Abbotsford, nor does her husband, except as the trus- 
tee of his daughter; and their time is spent chiefly in 
London or on the Continent,. Strange and sad is the fate 
which has attended the family of Sir Walter Scott. His 
brothers all died young, and his sons and daughters were 
summoned early to the spirit land. Let us hope that the 
only surviving scion of his race may be long spared to 
hand down to posterity the name and features of that 
great man whose presence was so dear to the generation 
who knew and revered him, and whose genius is one of 
the proudest inheritances of his native land. 

L 

MISS CARPENTER TO WALTER SCOTT. 

Carlisle, October 4, 1797. 

It is only an hour since I received Lord Downshire’s 
letter. You will say, I hope, that I am indeed very good 
to write so soon, but I almost fear that all my goodness 
can never carry me through all this plaguy writing. Lord 
Downshire will be happy to hear from you. He is the 


SIR WALTER AND LADA SCOTT. 


297 


very best man on earth — his letter is kind and affection- 
ate, and full of advice, much in the style of your last. I 
am to consult most carefully my heart. Do you believe I 
did not do it when I gave you my consent ? It is true, I 
don’t like to reflect on that subject. I am afraid. It is 
very awful to think it is for life. How can I ever laugh 
after such tremendous thoughts ? I believe never more. 
I am hurt to find that your friends don’t think the match 
a prudent one. If it is not agreeable to them all, you 
must then forget me, for I have too much pride to think 
of connecting myself in a family were I not equal to 
them. Pray, my dear sir, write to Lord D. immediately 
—explain yourself to him as you would to me, and he 
will, I am sure, do all he can to serve us. If you really 
love me, you must lovn him, and write to him as you 
would to a friend. 

Adieu — au plaisir de vous revoir bientot. 

C. 0. 


n. 

WALTER SCOTT TO MISS CHRISTIAN RUTHERFORD. 

Has it never happened to you, my dear Miss Christy, 
in the course of your domestic economy, to meet with a 
drawer stuffed so very, so extremely full, that it was very 
difficult to pull it open, however desirous you might be 
to exhibit its contents ? In case this miraculous event 
has ever taken place, you may somewhat conceive from 
thence the cause of my silence, which has really proceeded 
from my having a very great deal to communicate; so 
much so, that I really hardly know how to begin. As for 
my affection and friendship for you, believe me sincerely, 
they neither slumber nor sleep, and it is only your sus- 
picions of their drowsiness which incline me to write at 
this period of a business highly interesting to me, rather 
than when I could have done so with something like cer- 
tainty — hem ! hem ! It must come out at once — I am in 
a very fair way of being married to a very amiable young 


298 


LOYE m LETTERS. 


woman, with whom I formed an attachment in the course 
of my tour. She was born in France — her parents were 
of English extraction — the name Carpenter. She was left 
an orphan in early life, and educated in England, and is 
at present under the care of a Miss Nicolson, a daughter 
of the late Dean of Exeter, who was on a visit to her 
relations in Cumberland. Miss Carpenter is of age, but 
as she lies under great obligations to the Marquis of 
Downshire, who was her guardian, she cannot take a step 
of such importance without his consent — and I daily ex- 
pect his final answer upon the subject. Her fortune is 
dependent, in a great measure, upon an only and very 
affectionate brother. He is Commercial Resident at Sa- 
lem in India, and has settled upon her an annuity of <£500. 
Of her personal accomplishments I shall only say, that 
she possesses very good sense, with uncommon good tem- 
per, which I have seen put to most severe trials. I must 
bespeak your kindness and friendship for her. You may 
easily believe I shall rest very much both upon Miss R. 
and you for giving her the carte de pays, when she comes 
to Edinburgh. I may give you a hint that there is no 
romance in her composition — and that, though born in 
France, she has the sentiments and manners of an En- 
glishwoman, and does not like to be thought otherwise. 
A very slight tinge in her pronunciation is all which 
marks the foreigner. She is at present at Carlisle, where 
I shall join her as soon as our arrangements are finally 
made. Some difficulties have occurred in settling matters 
with my father, owing to certain prepossessions which you 
can easily conceive his adopting. One main article was 
the uncertainty of her provision, which has been in part 
removed by the safe arrival of her remittances for this year, 
with assurances of their being regular and even larger in 
future, her brother’s situation being extremely lucrative. 
Another objection was her birth : “ Can any good thing 
come out of Nazareth ?” but as it was birth merely and solely, 
this has been abandoned. You will be more interested 
about other points regarding her, and I can only say 
that — though our acquaintance was shorter than ever I 
could have thought of forming such a connection upon — 
it was exceedingly close, and gave me full opportunities 


SIR WALTER AND LADY SCOTT. 


299 


for observation — and if I bad parted with her, it must 
have been for ever, which both parties began to think 
would be a disagreeable thing. She has conducted her- 
self through the whole business with so much propriety 
as to make a strong impression in her favor upon the 
minds of my father and mother, prejudiced as they were 
against her, from the circumstances I have mentioned. 
We shall be your neighbors in the New Town, and intend 
to live very quietly; Charlotte will need many lessons 
from Miss R. in housewifery. Pray show this letter to 
Miss R. with my very best compliments. Nothing can 
now stand in the way except Lord Downshire, who may 
not think the match a prudent one for Miss C. ; but he 
will surely think her entitled to judge for herself at her 
age, in what she would wish to place her happiness. She 
is not a beauty, by any means, but her person and face 
are very engaging. She is a brunette; her manners are 
lively, but when necessary, she can be very serious. She 
was baptized and educated a Protestant of the Church 
of England. I think I have now said enough upon this 
subject. Do not write till you hear from me again, which 
will be when all is settled. I wish this important event 
may hasten your return to town. I send a goblin story,* 
with best compliments to the misses, and ever am, yours 
affectionately, Walter Scott.” 


m. 

LORD DOWNSHIRE TO WALTER SCOTT. 

London, October 15th, 1797. 

Sir: I received your letter with pleasure, instead of 
considering it as an intrusion. One thing more being fully 
stated, would have made it perfectly satisfactory,— 
namely, the sort of income you immediately possess, and 


The Erl-King. 


300 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


the sort of maintenance Miss Carpenter, in case of your 
demise, might reasonably expect. Though she is of an 
age to judge for herself in the choice of an object that 
she would like to run the race of life with, she has 
referred the subject to me. As her friend and guardian, 
I in duty must try to secure her happiness, by endeav- 
oring to keep her comfortable immediately, and to pre- 
vent her being left destitute, in case of any unhappy 
contingency. Her good sense and good education are 
her chief fortune ; therefore, in the worldly way of talk- 
ing, she is not entitled to much. Her brother, who was 
also left under my care at an early period, is excessively 
fond of her ; he has no person to think of but her as 
yet ; and will certainly be enabled to make her very 
handsome presents, as he is doing very well in India, 
where I sent him some years ago, and where he bears a 
very high character, I am happy to say. I do not throw 
out this to induce you to make any proposal beyond 
what prudence and discretion recommend; but I hope 
I shall hear from you by return of post, as I may be 
shortly called out of town to some distance. As chil- 
dren are in general the consequence of an happy union, 
I should wish to know what may be your thoughts or 
wishes upon that subject. I trust you will not think me 
too particular ; indeed I am sure you will not, when you 
consider that I am endeavoring to secure the happi- 
ness and welfare of an estimable young woman whom 
you admire, and profess to be partial and attached to, 
and for whom I have the highest regard, esteem, and 
respect. 

I am, sir, your obedient humble servant, 

Downshire. 


IT. 


MISS CARPENTER TO WALTER SOOTT. 

Carlisle, Got 22. 

Your last letter, my dear sir, contains a very fine train 
of perhaps , and of so many pretty conjectures, that it is 


SIR WALTER AND LADY SCOTT. 


801 


not flattering you to say you excel in the art of torment- 
ing yourself. As it happens, you are quite wrong in 
all your suppositions. I have been waiting for Lord 
D.’s answer to your letter, to give a full answer to your 
very proper inquiries about my family. Miss Nicolson 
says, that when she did offer to give you some infor- 
mation, you refused it — and advises me now to wait for 
Lord D.’s letter. Don’t believe I have been idle ; I have 
been writing very long letters to him, and all about 
you How can you think that I will give an answer 
about the house until I hear from London ? — that is quite 
impossible ; and I believe you are a little out of your 
senses to imagine I can be in Edinburgh before the 
twelfth of next month. O, my dear sir, no — you must not 
think of it this great while. I am much flattered by your 
mother’s remembrance ; present my respectful compli- 
ments to her. You don’t mention your father in your 
last anxious letter — I hope he is better. I am expecting 
every day to hear from my brother. You may tell your 
uncle he is commercial resident at Salem. He will find 
the name of Charles C. in his India list. My compliments 
to Captain Scott. Sans adieu , C. C. 


y. 


Carlisle, Oct 25. 

Indeed, Mr. Scott, I am by no means pleased with all this 
writing. I have told you how much I dislike it, and yet 
you still persist in asking me to write, and that by return of 
post. O, you really are quite out of your senses. I should 
not have indulged you in that whim of yours, had you not 
given me that hint that my silence gives an air of mys- 
tery. I have no reason that can detain me in acquaint- 
ing you that my father and mother were Freneh, of the 
name of Charpentier ; he had a place under govern- 
ment ; their residence was at Lyons, where you would 
find on inquiries that they lived in good repute and in very 
good style. I had the misfortune of losing my father 


302 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


before I could know the value of such a parent. At his 
death we were left to the care of Lord D., who was his 
very great friend ; and very soon after I had the afflic- 
tion of losing my mother. Our taking the name of 
Carpenter was on my brother’s going to India, to pre- 
vent any little difficulties that might have occurred. I 
hope now you are pleased. Lord D. could have given 
you every information, as he has been acquainted with 
all my family. You say you almost love him ; but until 
your almost comes to a quite , I cannot love you. Before I 
conclude this famous epistle, I will give you a little hint 
— that is, not to put so many must in your letters — it is 
beginning rather too soon ; and another thing is that I 
take the liberty not to mind them much, but I expect 
you mind me. You must take care of yourself ; you must 
think of me, and believe me yours sincerely, C. C. 


YL 


Carlisle, Oct. 26. 

I have only a minute before the post goes, to assure 
you, my dear sir, of the welcome reception of the stranger.* 
The very great likeness to a friend of mine will endear 
him to me ; he shall be my constant companion, but I 
wish he could give me an answer to a thousand ques- 
tions I have to make — one in particular, what reason have 
you for so many fears as you express ? Have your friends 
changed? Pray let me know the truth — they perhaps 
don’t like me being French. Do write immediately — let 
it be in better spirits. Et croyez-moi toujours votre sin- 
cere C. C. 


* A miniature of Scott 


SIR WALTER AND LADY SCOTT. 


803 


vn. 


October 31sfc. 

* * * * All your apprehensions about your friends 
make me very uneasy. At your father’s age, prejudices 
are not easily overcome — old people have, you know, so 
much more wisdom and experience that we must be 
guided by them. If he has an objection on my being 
French , I forgive him with all my heart, as I don’t love 
them myself, O, how all these things plague me ! when 
will it end? And to complete the matter, you talk of 
going to the West Indies. I am certain your father and 
uncle say you are a hot, heady young man, quite mad, and 
I assure you I join with them ; and I must believe that 
when you have such an idea, you have then determined 
to think no more of me. I begin to repent of having 
accepted your picture. I will send it back again, if you 
ever think again about the West Indies. Your family 
then would love me very much — to forsake them for 
a stranger , a person who does not possess half the 
charms and good qualities that you imagine. I think I 
hear your uncle calling you a hot, heady young man. I 
am certain of it, and I am generally right in my conjec- 
tures. What does your sister say about it? I suspect 
that she thinks on the matter as I should do, with fears 
and anxieties for the happiness of her brother. If it 
be proper, and you think it would be acceptable, present 
my best compliments to your mother; and to my old 
acquaintance, Captain Scott, I beg to be remembered. 
This evening is the first ball — don’t you wish to be of 
our party? I guess your answer — it would give me 
infinite pleasure. En attendant le plaisir de vous revoir, 
je suis toujours votre constante 

Charlotte. 


304 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


vnx 

LORD DOWNSHIRE TO WALTER SCOTT. 

The Castle, Hartford, October 29,1797. 

Sir: I received the favor of your letter. It was so 
manly, honorable, candid, and so full of good sense, that 
I think Miss Carpenter’s friends cannot in any way 
object to the union you propose. Its taking place, 
when or where, will depend upon herself, as I shall write 
to her by this night’s post. Any provision that may be 
given to her by her brother, you will have settled upon 
her and her children ; and I hope, with all my heart, 
that every earthly happiness may attend you both. I 
shall be always happy to hear it, and to subscribe myself 
your faithful friend, and obedient humble servant, 

Downshire. 


( On the same sheet.) 

Carlisle, Nov. 4. 

Last night I received the inclosed for you from Lord 
Downshire. If it has your approbation I shall be very 
glad to see you as soon as will be convenient. I have 
a thousand things to tell you ; but let me beg of you 
not to think for some time of a house. I am sure I 
can convince you of the propriety and prudence of wait- 
ing until your father will settle things more to your 
satisfaction, and until I have heard from my brother. 
You must be of my way of thinking. — Adieu. 

C. C. 


IX. 

MISS CARPENTER TO WALTER SCOTT. 

Carlisle, Nov. 4th. 

Your letter never could have come in a more favorable 
moment. Anything you could have said would have 


SIR WALTER AND LADY SCOTT. 305 

been well received. Yon surprise me mucli at the regret 
you express you had of leaving Carlisle. Indeed, I can’t 
believe it was on my account, I was so uncommonly stupid. 
I don’t know w r hat could be the matter with me, I was 
so very low, and felt really ill: it was even a trouble to 
speak. . The settling of our little plans — all looked so 
much in earnest — that I began reflecting more seriously 
than I generally do, or approve of. I don’t think that 
very thoughtful people ever can be happy. As this is my 
maxim, adieu to all thoughts. I have made a determina- 
tion of being pleased with everything and with every- 
body in Edinburgh ; a wise system for happiness, is it 
not? I enclose the lock. I have had almost all my 
hair cut off. Miss Nicolson has taken some, which she 
sends to London to be made to something, but this you 
are not to know of, as she intends to present it to you. 
***** * i am happy to hear of your father’s being 
better pleased as to money matters ; it will come at last ; 
don’t let that trifle disturb you. Adieu, Monsieur. J’ai 
1, honneur d’etre votre tres humble et tres obeissante 

c. c. 


X. 


Carlisle, Nov. 27 th. 

You have made me very triste all day. Pray nevermore 
complain of being poor. Are you not ten times richer 
than I am. Depend on yourself and your profession. I 
have no doubt you will rise very high, and be a great , 
rich man, but we should look down to be contented with 
our lot, and banish all disagreeable thoughts. We shall 
do very well. I am very sorry to hear you have such a 
bad head . I hope I shall nurse away all your aches. I 
think you write too much. When I am mistress I shall 
not allow it. How angry I should be with you if you 
were to part with Lenore. Do you really believe I should 
think it an unnecessary expense where your health and 
pleasure can be concerned? I have a better opinion 


806 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


of you, and I am very glad yon don’t give up the cav- 
alry, as I love anything that is stylish. Don t forget to 
find a stand for the old carriage, as I shall like to keep 
it, in case we should have to go any journey ; it is 
so much more convenient than the post-chaises, and 
will do very well till we can keep our carriage. What 
an idea of yours was that to mention where you wish 
to have your bones laid ! If you were married, I should 
think you were tired of me. A very pretty compliment 
before marriage. I hope sincerely that I shall not live 
to see that day. If you always have those cheerful 
thoughts, how very pleasant and gay you must be. 

“Adieu, my dearest friend. Take care of yourself if 
you love me, as I have no wish that you should visit that 
beautiful and romantic scene, the burying-place. . Adieu, 
once more, and believe that you are loved very sincerely 
by 0. 0. 


XL 


Deo. 10th. 

If I could but really believe that my letter gave you 
only half the pleasure you express, I should almost think, 
my dearest Scott, that I should get very fond of writing, 
merely for the pleasure to indulge you — that is saying a 
great deal. I hope you are sensible of the compliment I 
pay you, and don’t expect I shall always be so pretty 
behaved. You may depend on me, my dearest friend, for 
fixing as early a day as I possibly can ; and if it happens 
to be not quite so soon as you wish, you must not be 
angry with me. It is very unlucky you are such a bad 
housekeeper — as I am no better. I shall try. I hope to 
have very soon the pleasure of seeing you, and to tell you 
how much I love you ; but I wish the first fortnight was 
over. With all my love, and those sort of pretty things, 
adieu. Charlotte. 


SIR WALTER AJND LADY SCOTT. 307 

P. S. — Etudiez votre Franpais. Remember you are to 
teach me Italian in return, but I shall be but a stupid 
scholar. Aimez Charlotte, 


Carlisle, Dec. 14th. 

****** « j heard last night from my friends in 

London, and I shall certainly have the deed this week. 
I will send it to you directly ; but not to lose so much 
time as you have been reckoning, I will prevent any little 
delay that might happen by the post, by fixing already 
next Wednesday for your coming here, and on Thursday 
the 21st — Oh, my dear Scott, on that day I shall be yours 
for ever. 0. C. 

P. S . — Arrange it so that we shall see none of your 
family the night of our arrival. I shall be so tired, 
and such a fright, I should not be seen to advantage. 


DUKE SUSSEX AND LADY MURRAY. 


The Dulie of Sussex, son of George the Third, and 
uncle of Queen Victoria, went to Italy in 1793, for the 
benefit of his health. At Dome he visited the Countess of 
Dunmore, who was residing there with her two daugh- 
ters. With the eldest — Lady Augusta Murray, the duke 
fell desperately in love, and his love being returned, he 
at length prevailed upon an English clergyman named 
Gunn, resident in Borne, to marry them. The Duke, or, 
as he was then styled, Prince Augustus, was twenty. 
The fair lady was some six years older. The wedded 
lovers proceeded soon after to England, and were again 
married by banns at St. George’s, the fashionable church 
in Hanover Square, London. They had a son and 
daughter. Upon the death of the Duke, in 1843, the son 
put in a claim for his father’s titles, but failed to obtain 
them, in consequence of the Duke’s marriage having 
taken place in violation of the Boyal Marriage Act. At 
the trial the following letters were read: 

L 

LADY AUGUSTA TO PRINCE AUGUSTUS. 

March, 1793. 

Then, my treasure, you say you will talk of honor to him. 
There is honor in the case; if there is, I will not marry 


DUKE SUSSEX AND LADY MURRAY* 


S09 


you. I love you, and I have reason to hope and believe 
you love me : but honor, in the sense you take, is out of 
the question. I cannot bear to owe my happiness to 
anything but affection; and all promises, though sacred 
in our eyes and in those of Heaven, shall not oblige you 
to do anything towards me that can in the least prejudice 
your future interests. As for honor, with the meaning 
Mr. Gunn will annex to it, I am ashamed to fancy it; — 
he will imagine I have been your mistress, and that hu- 
manity, commonly termed honor, now induces you to 
pity me, and so veil my follies by an honorable marriage. 
My own beloved Prince, forgive me if I am warm upon 
this subject. I wish you to feel you owe me nothing; 
and whatever I owe you, I wish to owe to your love, and 
to your good opinion, but to no other principle. Tell 
Mr. Gunn, my own Augustus, that you love me — that 
you are resolved to marry me — that you have pledged 
your sacred word; tell him, if you please, that upon the 
Bible you have sworn it — that I have done the same, and 
nothing shall divide us; but don’t let him imagine that 
1 have been vile. Do this my only love ; but pray take 
care of the character of your wife, of your Augusta. 


n. 

PRINCE AUGUSTUS TO LADY AUGUSTA. 

26th Mabch, 1793 

Do, my dearest Augusta, trust me; I will never abuse the 
confidence you put in me, and more and more will en- 
deavor to deserve it. I only wait for your orders to speak 
to Mr. Gunn. Say only that you wish me to do it, and I 
will hasten to get a positive answer. See, my soul, it 
only depends upon you to speak; thy Augustus, thou wilt 
find ready at all times to serve you. He thinks, he 
dreams of nothing but to make thee happy. Can he not 
succeed in this, all his hopes are gone; life will be noth- 


810 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


ing to him: he will pass the days in one constant melan- 
choly, wishing them soon to conclude, and finding every 
one longer than the other. Indeed, my Augusta, that 
cannot be the case; my solemn oath is given, and that 
can never be recalled. I am yours, my soul ever yours. 


ni. 


4th Apbil, 1793. 

Will you allow me to come this evening ? It is my 
only hope. Oh, let me come, and we will send for Mr. 
Gunn. Everything but this is hateful to me. More 
than forty-eight hours have I passed without the smallest 
nourishment. Oh, let me not live so. Death is certainly 
better than this; which, if in forty-eight hours it has not 
taken place, must follow; for, by all that is holy, till 
when I am married, I will eat nothing; and if I am not 
to be married the promise shall die with me ! I am res- 
olute. Nothing in the world shall alter my determina- 
tion. If Gunn will not marry me I will die. * * * I 

will be conducted in everything by you; but I must be 
married, or die. I would rather see none of my family 
than be deprived of you. You alone can make me; you 
alone shall this evening. I will sooner drop than give 
you up. Good God ! how I feel ! and my love to be 
doubted sincere and warm. The Lord knows the truth 
of it; and as I say, if in forty-eight hours I am not mar- 
ried, I am no more. Oh, Augusta, my soul, let us try; 
let me come; I am capable of everything; I fear nothing, 
and Mr. Gunn, seeing our resolution, will agree. I am 
half dead. Good God! what will become of me? I 
shall go mad, most undoubtedly. 


DUKE SUSSEX AND LADY MURRAY. 


811 


IV. 


LADY AUGUSTA TO PRINCE AUGUSTUS. 


My treasure, my dearest life and love, how can I refuse 
you ? and yet dare I to trust the happiness your letter 
promised me? You shall come if you wish it; you shall 
do as you like; my whole soul rejoices in the assurances 
of your love, and to your exertions I will trust. I will 

send to ; but I fear the badness of the night will 

prevent his coming. My mother has ordered her car- 
riage at past seven, and will not, I fear, be out before the 
half-hour after. To be yours to-night, seems a dream 
that I cannot make out; the whole day have I been 
plunged in misery, and now to awake to joy is a felicity 
that is beyond my ideas of bliss. I doubt its success; 
but do as you will; I am what you will; your will must 
be mine; and no will can ever be dearer to me, more 
mine, than that of my Augustus, my lover, my all. 






t 


\ 







CHARLES LAMB. 


i 


The effect of a present of a watch sent by Edward 
Moxon, the London publisher, to his betrothed, is thus 
amusingly described by dear Charles Lamb in a letter to 
his friend. This most lovable of men was bom in Lon- 
don, in 1775, and was for thirty-three years a clerk in the 
India House. From the days of his schoolboy friendship 
with Coleridge, he always continued to associate with 
men of letters, and perhaps no man of his time was more 
admired and beloved by his friends than Charles Lamb. 
He died in 1834, a few months after his friend Coleridge. 
“ However much of him has departed,” said Hood, " there 
is still more of him that cannot die; for as long as hu- 
manity endures, and man holds fellowship with man, his 
spirit will be extant.” His grave is at Edmonton near 
London, and on his tombstone are inscribed the following 
lines: 

Farewell, dear friend! that smile, that harmless mirth, 

No more shall gladden onr domestic hearth; 

That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow — 

Better than words— no more assuage our woe. 

That hand outstretch’d from small bat well-earned store, 

Yields succor to the destitute no more. 

Yet art thou not all lost: through many an age, 

With sterling sense and humor, shall thy page 
Win many an English bosom, pleased to see 
That old and happier vein revived in thee. 

This for our earth: and if with friends we share 
Our joys in heaven, we hope to meet thee there. 


CHABLES LAMB. 


313 


There were two events in the life of “gentle Elia,” 
neither of which were known while he lived except to his 
dearest friends — the insanity of his sister Mary, and the 
terrible tragedy which it produced; and his disappoint- 
ment in love, both of which must have been keenly felt 
by his sensitive nature. Of the latter event little is known 
except that in his early verses she is commemorated as 
“the fair haired maid,” and that he suppressed his love, 
like the brave, good man that he was, that he might de- 
vote his life to the care of his unfortunate sister whose 
malady proved fatal to Mrs. Lamb. How many in the 
beadroll of fame have been immortalized as heroes and 
saints for less virtuous and heroic acts ? The sweetness 
of Lamb’s character breathed through his writings, and 
was felt even by strangers, but its noble and heroic as- 
pect was unguessed even by many of his friends till the 
publication of letters after the green grass was growing 
over his grave, and the grave of his sister, revealed an 
example of self-sacrifice, than which nothing more lovely 
in human action and endurance can be exhibited. 


CHARLES LAMB TO EDWARD MOXON. 

July 24th, 1833. 

Eor God’s sake give Emma * no more watches ; one has 
turned her head. She is arrogant and insulting. She 
said something very unpleasant to our old clock in the 
passage, as if he did not keep time, and yet he had made 
her no appointment. She takes it out every instant to 
look at the moment-hand. She lugs us out into the fields, 
because there the bird-boys ask you, “ Pray, sir, can you 
tell us what’s o’clock ?” and she answers them punctually. 
She loses all her time looking to see “ what the time is.” 
I overheard her whispering, “ Just so many hours, min- 
utes, etc., to Tuesday;” I think St. George’s goes too 


Miss Emma Isola, a friend of Charles and Mary Lamb. 


314 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


slow ! This little present of Time ! — why — ’tis Eternity 
to her! 

What can make her so fond of a gingerbread watch ? 
She has spoiled some of the movements. Between our- 
selves, she has kissed away “ half-past twelve,” which I 
suppose to be the canonical hour in Hanover Square. 

Well, if “love me, love my watch” answers, she will 
keep time to you. “ It goes right by the Horse Guards.” 

Dearest M. : Never mind opposite nonsense.* She 
does not love you for the watch, but the watch for you. 
I will be at the wedding, and keep the 30th July as long 
as my poor months last me, as a festival, gloriously. 

Yours ever, Elia. 

We have not heard from Cambridge, I will write the 
moment we do. 

Edmonton, 24th July, twenty minutes past three by 
Emma’s watch. 


* Written on the opposite page to that in which the previous affec- 
tionate and amusing letter appears. 


mo FOSCOLO, 


The following passionate letters by Ugo Foscolo, an 
Italian patriot, poet, dramatic writer, and literary savant , 
are taken from a work entitled “ Lettere di Ortis.” The 
closing year of Foscolo’s life were spent in England as a 
political exile, and there is good reason for believing that 
these letters express the true feelings of the writer under 
the circumstances described. Who the object of his un- 
happy passion was, is not known. Foscolo was born in 
1776, and died in the year 1827. His last resting place 
is by the side of William Hogarth, the celebrated artist, 
in the picturesque little church at Chiswick, near London. 


FOSCOLO TO A FRIEND. 

14th Mat, 11 o’clock. 

Yes, Lorenzo ! hear it. My lips are yet moist from a 
kiss of Teresa; and my cheeks have been inundated by 
her tears. She loves me, yes . . . she loves me ! Leave 
me, Lorenzo, leave me in all the ecstasy of this blissful 
moment. 

14th Mat, Evening. 

Oh ! how frequently have I resumed my pen, without 

power to continue I feel my mind somewhat calm, 

and return to my letter-writing. Teresa reposed under 
the mulberry-tree ... I recited to her the Odes of 
Sappho, but how can I describe to you that blessed mo- 
ment? She loves me, yes . . . she loves me. At these 


mo FOSCOLO, 


The following passionate letters by Ugo Foscolo, an 
Italian patriot, poet, dramatic writer, and literary savant , 
are taken from a work entitled “ Lettere di Ortis.” The 
closing year of Foscolo’s life were spent in England as a 
political exile, and there is good reason for believing that 
these letters express the true feelings of the writer under 
the circumstances described. Who the object of his un- 
happy passion was, is not known. Foscolo was born in 
1776, and died in the year 1827. His last resting place 
is by the side of William Hogarth, the celebrated artist, 
in the picturesque little church at Chiswick, near London. 


FOSCOLO TO A FRIEND. 

14th Mat, 11 o’clock. 

Yes, Lorenzo ! hear it. My lips are yet moist from a 
kiss of Teresa; and my cheeks have been inundated by 
her tears. She loves me, yes . . . she loves me ! Leave 
me, Lorenzo, leave me in all the ecstasy of this blissful 
moment. 

14th Mat, Evening. 

Oh ! how frequently have I resumed my pen, without 

power to continue I feel my mind somewhat calm, 

and return to my letter-writing. Teresa reposed under 
the mulberry-tree ... I recited to her the Odes of 
Sappho, but how can I describe to you that blessed mo- 
ment? She loves me, yes . . . she loves me. At these 


mo FOSCOLO, 


The following passionate letters by Ugo Foscolo, an 
Italian patriot, poet, dramatic writer, and literary savant , 
are taken from a work entitled “ Lettere di Ortis.” The 
closing year of Foscolo’s life were spent in England as a 
political exile, and there is good reason for believing that 
these letters express the true feelings of the writer under 
the circumstances described. Who the object of his un- 
happy passion was, is not known. Foscolo was born in 
1776, and died in the year 1827. His last resting place 
is by the side of William Hogarth, the celebrated artist, 
in the picturesque little church at Chiswick, near London. 


FOSCOLO TO A FRIEND. 

14th Mat, 11 o’clock. 

Yes, Lorenzo ! hear it. My lips are yet moist from a 
kiss of Teresa; and my cheeks have been inundated by 
her tears. She loves me, yes . . . she loves me ! Leave 
me, Lorenzo, leave me in all the ecstasy of this blissful 
moment. 

14th Mat, Evening. 

Oh ! how frequently have I resumed my pen, without 

power to continue I feel my mind somewhat calm, 

and return to my letter-writing. Teresa reposed under 
the mulberry-tree ... I recited to her the Odes of 
Sappho, but how can I describe to you that blessed mo- 
ment? She loves me, yes . . . she loves me. At these 


318 


LOVE m LETTERS. 


Blessed were the ancients, who believed themselves 
worthy the kisses of the immortal goddesses of heaven ; 
who sacrificed to Beanty and the Graces; who diffused 
the splendors of divinity over the imperfections of man, 
and who found beauty and truth in caressing the idols 
of their fancy! Illusions! but I, nevertheless, without 
them, should feel life only in pain; or (which I dread even 
more), in stern and wearisome insensibility, for when my 
heart shall be unwilling to feel, I will tear it from my breast 
with my own hands ; and throw it from me, like an un- 
faithful servant. 


n. 


21st May. 

Ah me ! what long nights, what nights of anguish ! 
The fear of not seeing her again awakens me. Devoured 
by a sensation, profound, ardent, and raging, I leap from 
bed to the balcony, and grant no repose to my uncovered 
shivering limbs, until I have discerned a ray of dawn 
from the east. I run breathless to her side, and .... 
idiot that I am ! I stifle both my words and my sighs ; I 
neither understand nor hear ; time flies, and night tears 
me from that abode of paradise. Alas ! like a flash of 
lightning, thou breakest through the darkness ; thou 
glitterest, passest away, and increasest the terror and the 
gloom. 


in. 


27th May. 

I say within myself— And is it indeed true, that this 
an fr heaven exists here, in this nether world— among 
us p or I suspect that I have become enamored of the 
creature of my own fancy. 


UGO FOSCOLO. 


819 


But who would not have desired to love her, even though 
unhappily ? and where is the happy man with whom I 
would deign to exchange my present deplorable state ? 
. . . .but how can I, on the other hand, be so much my 
own enemy as to torment myself, Heaven knows ! with- 
out any hope whatever? A certain pride, perhaps, of 
this girl, both in her own beauty and my misfortunes .... 
she does not love me; her pity may hatch a treachery. 
But that celestial kiss of hers, which is ever on my lips, 
and which governs all my thoughts, and those tears ! . . . . 
Alas! ever since that moment she avoids me; nor dare 
she any longer look me in the face. A seducer ! — I ? Oh 
when I hear that tremendous sentence thunder in my 
soul, “ I never shall be yours !’ I pass from rage to mad- 
ness, and meditate crimes of blood . . .Not thou, heaven- 
ly girl ! I, I alone, have attempted treachery. 

Oh ! one other kiss of thine, and abandon me after- 
wards to my dreams, and sweet delirium. I shall die at 
thy feet; but wholly thine — wholly. Thou, if tlioucanst 
not be my wife, shalt be, at least, my companion in the 
grave. Ah no ! let the punishment of this fatal love be 
poured upon me alone. Let me mourn to all eternity; 
but may heaven never, oh Teresa ! make thee through me 
unhappy. But I, in the mean time, have lost thee, and 
thou thyself fliest from me. Ah ! didst thou love me as 
I love thee .... 

Nevertheless, oh Lorenzo ! amidst doubts so cruel, 
amidst so many torments, every time that I ask counsel 
from reason, she comforts me by saying — Thou art not 
immortal . Away ! let me suffer, then ; and even to the 
utmost. I shall go forth from the hell of life ; and I 
alone suffice. With this idea I laugh to scorn both for- 
tune and man. 


WILLIAM HAZLITT. 


“ I should belie my own conscience, if I said less than 
that I think W. H. to be, in his healthy state, one of the 
wisest and finest spirits breathing. So far from being 
ashamed of that intimacy which was betwixt us, it is my 
boast that I was able for so many years to have pre- 
served it entire, and I think I shall go to my grave with- 
out finding or expecting to find such another companion.” 
Thus wrote Charles Lamb, in 1823, of William Hazlitt, 
the well-known English essayist. He was a son of the 
clergyman who founded the first Unitarian church in 
Boston, Massachusetts, and was born in Mitre Lane, 
Maidstone, England, on the 10th of April, 1778. In 
early life Hazlitt was an artist, but not satisfied with his 
attainments in this profession, he went to London and 
commenced the career of an author in 1803, from which 
time till his death, in 1830, he was constantly before the 
public as a journalist and miscellaneous writer. His 
largest work is the “Life of Napoleon,” in four volumes; 
but he is most esteemed for the philosophical spirit of 
his criticisms. In 1867 his grandson published his me- 
moirs, with portions of his correspondence, among which 
we find the following unique love-letter, addressed to 
Miss Sarah Stoddart, who afterwards became Mrs. Haz- 
litt. It was written in January, 1808, and on the first of 
May the ceremony was solemnized in London, with 
Charles Lamb for best man, and his sister, Mary Lamb, 
for bridesmaid. “Gentle Elia,” in a letter to Southey, 


WILLIAM ITAZLITT. 


321 


thus alludes to his having been present : “ I was at Haz- 
litt’s marriage, and had like to have been turned out 
several times during the ceremony. Anything awful 
makes me laugh.” 


i 

) 


My Dear Love: Above a week has passed, and I have 
received no letter — not one of those letters “ in which I 
live, or have no life at all.” What is become of you? 
Are you married, hearing that I was dead (for so it has 
been reported) ? Or are you gone into a nunnery ? Or 
are you fallen in love with some of the amorous heroes 
of Boccaccio ? Wliich of them is it? Is it with Chynon, 
who was transformed from a clown into a lover, and 
learned to spell by the force of beauty? Or with Lo- 
renzo, the lover of Isabella, whom her three brethren 
hated (as your brother does me,) who was a merchant’s 
clerk ? Or with Federigo Alberigi, an honest gentleman, 
who ran through his fortune, and won his mistress by 
cooking a fair falcon for her dinner, though it was the 
only means he had left of getting a dinner for himself? 
This last is the man; and I am the more persuaded of it, 
because I think I won your good liking myself by giving 
you an entertainment — of sausages, when I had no money 
to buy them with. Nay, now, never deny it ! Did not I 
ask your consent that very night after, and did you not 
give it ? Well, I should be confoundedly jealous of those 
fine gallants, if I did not know that a living dog is better 
than a dead lion; though, now I think of it, Boccaccio 
does not in general make much of his lovers: it is his 
women who are so delicious. I almost wish I had lived 
in those times, and had been a little more amiable. Now 
if a woman had written the book, it would not have had 
this effect upon me : the men would have been heroes and 
angels, and the women nothing at all. Isn’t there some 
truth in that ? Talking of departed loves, I met my old 


WILLIAM HAZLITT TO MISS STODDART. 


Tuesday Night. 


322 


LOYE IN LETTERS. 


flame* the other day in the street. I did dream of her 
one night since, and only one; every other night I have 
had the same dream I have had for these two months past. 
Now, if you are at all reasonable, this will satisfy you. 

Thursday Morning . The book is come. When I saw 
it I thought that you had sent it back in a huff ’ tired out 
by my sauciness, and coldness , and delays, and were going 
to keep an account of dimities and sayes, or to salt pork 
and chronicle small beer as the dutiful wife of some fresh- 
looking, rural swain; so that you cannot think how sur- 
prised and pleased I was to find them all done. I liked 
your note as well or better than the extracts; it is just 
such a note as such a nice rogue as you ought to write after 
the provocation you had received. I 'would not give a pin 
for a girl “ whose cheeks never tingle,” nor for myself if 
I could not make them tingle sometimes. Now, though 
I am always writing to you about “ lips and noses,” and 
such sort of stuff, yet as I sit by my fireside (which I do 
generally eight or ten hours a day,) Ioftener think of you 
in a serious, sober light. For, indeed, I never love you 
so well as when I think of sitting down with you to din- 
ner on a boiled scrag-end of mutton, and hot potatoes. 
You please my fancy more then than when I think of you 
in — no, you would never forgive me if I were to finish 
the sentence. Now I think of it, what do you mean to 
be dressed in when we are married? But it does not 
much matter! I wish you would let your hair grow; 
though perhaps nothing will be better than “ the same 
air and look with which at first my heart was took.” 
But now to business. I mean soon to call upon your 
brother in form, namely, as soon as I get quite well, 
which I hope to do in about another fortnight; and then 
I hope you will come up by the coach as fast as the horses 
can carry you, for I long mightily to be in your ladyship’s 
presence — to vindicate my character. I think you had 
better sell the small house, I mean that at 4., io, and I 
will borrow 100?. So that we shall set off merrily, in spite 
of all the prudence of Edinburgh. 

Good-bye, little dear ! W. H. 


* Miss Shepherd, daughter of Dr Shepb rd, of C iteacre. 


DANIEL WEBSTER. 


Among the hills of New Hampshire was bom, about 
the close of the Revolutionary war, a boy destined to 
shed a bright lustre upon his country and age. He was 
a child of the wilderness, and but for the New England 
system of education, which pushed, even then, the means 
of instruction into remote solitudes, he never would have 
been able to bring his great faculties to bear in public 
life. The following letter, written by Webster to Miss 
Seaton, of Washington, had its origin somewhat as fol- 
lows : The young lady to whom it was addressed had 
been spending a social evening at his residence in Wash- 
ington, and on account of the rain had substituted a bor- 
rowed hood for her own beautiful bonnet, and the note 
in question was delivered with the bonnet at Miss Sea- 
ton’s house by the illustrious statesman, while driving to 
his office the following morning. Daniel Webster was 
born on the 18th of June, 1782, and died at Marshfield, 
his country seat, on the 24th of October, 1852. The 
great orator, jurist, and statesman, like so many famous 
men of bygone days — the Franklins, Washingtons, Jeffer- 
sons, and Clays, transmitted to posterity only the sha- 
dow of his illustrious name. He was stripped, piece by 
piece, of the companionship of the “ dear kindred blood,” 
until at length, grey-haired and weary, he wandered, al- 
most alone, to the unknown land. His only surviving 
son, Fletcher, fell a sacrifice on the altar of that Union 


324 


DANIEL WEBSTER. 


upon whose broken and dishonored fragments the great 
statesman prayed he might not behold the sun in heaven 
shining. 


WEBSTER TO MISS SEATON. 

Monday Morning, March 4, ’44. 

My Dear Josephine : I fear you got a wetting last 
evening, as it rained fast soon after you left our door ; 
and I avail myself of the return of your Bonnet , to express 
the wish that you are well this morning, and without 
cold. 

I have demanded parlance with your Bonnet : have 
asked it how many tender looks it has noticed to be di- 
rected under it ; what soft words it has heard, close to 
its side ; in what instances an air of triumph has caused 
it to be tossed ; and whether, ever, and when, it has 
quivered from trembling emotions, proceeding from be- 
low. But it has proved itself a faithful keeper of secrets, 
and would answer none of my questions. It only re- 
mained for me to attempt to surprise it into confession, 
by pronouncing sundry names, one after another. It 
seemed quite unmoved by most of these, but at the ap- 
parently unexpected mention of one, I thought its rib- 
bands decidedly fluttered ! 

I gave it my parting good wishes ; hoping that it 
might never cover an aching head, and that the eyes 
which it protects from the rays of the sun, may know no 
tears but those of joy and affection. 

Yours, dear Josephine, with affectionate regard. 

Dane. Webster. 


Miss J. Seaton. 


JOHN KEATS. 


The author of the “Endymion ” was born in London f 
in the year 1796. Some years of his boyhood were spent 
in a school at Enfield, and when he was about fifteen 
years old he was apprenticed to a surgeon in London; 
but poetry had taken possession of his soul, and the 
art was enthusiastically practiced. 

“He was one 

Who could not help it, for it was his nature 
To blossom into song, as ’tis a tree’s 
To leaf itself in April.” 

In 1817 he published a little volume of poems, and the 
year following appeared “ Endymion, a Poetic Romance,” 
abounding in beautiful imagery, and an exquisite grace of 
feeling, which make it to poetical minds one of the most 
seductive of poems. The savage attack made upon it by 
Gifford, in the Quarterly Review , affected the young poet 
deeply, and is said to have caused or accelerated the 
consumptive symptoms which soon showed themselves. 
The last two or three years of the life of Keats were em- 
bittered also by a hopeless passion for one who still lives, 
but whose name is withheld from the world. Not that 
it was not returned, but that his circumstances at first, 
and afterwards his fatal illness prevented his thinking 
seriously of marriage. He met her in the autumn of 
1818, soon after his return from a tour in the Highlands 


326 


JOHN KEATS. 


of Scotland. He describes ber in a letter to bis brotbei 
George, in America, as “ not a Cleopatra, but is, at least, 
Cbarmian : sbe bas a rich Eastern look : sbe bas fine 
eyes, and fine manners. When sbe comes into a room, 
sbe makes the same impression as the beauty of a leop- 
ardess.” In 1820, the same year that bis “Eve of St. 
Agnes,” “ Isabella,” “ Hyperion,” and “ Lamia,” ap- 
peared in a volume, of which Jeffrey said no book could be 
more fitly placed in the bands of a reader as a test whe- 
ther be bad “ a native relish for poetry and a genuine 
sensibility to its intrinsic charms,” Keats was persuaded 
to go abroad and try what effect the mild cbmate of 
Italy would have upon bis failing health. He sailed in 
September ; in November be wrote the following affect- 
ing letter, at Naples, to bis friend, Charles Armitage 
Brown. He reached Rome in a terrible state of exhaus- 
tion, worn out in body and mind. He purchased there a 
copy of Alfieri, but put it down at the second page, be- 
ing much affected at the lines: 

“ Misera me ! sollievo a me non resta, 

Altro chi il pianto ed U pianto e dditto /” 

On the twenty-third of February, 1821, the approaches 
of death came on, and he said to the friend who accompa- 
nied him from England : “ Severn — I — lift me up — I am 
dying — don’t be frightened — be firm, and thank God it 
has come.” A few hours later his gentle spirit passed 
away so peacefully that the devoted friend who watched 
by his bed-side thought he slept. His remains rest in 
the Protestant burying-ground at Rome, where his monu- 
ment, it has been remarked, throws a greater chill over 
the English heart than the ruins which surround it. 
Shelley went down beneath the waves, but his ashes 
found their way to the sweet spot he had so loved 


keats to a emend. 


327 


when living, and now mingle with those of Keats, who, 
like himself and so many other sweet young singers, 
warbled his songs in the spring, destined to know no 
summer. Of Keats we may say, as was written of him- 
self by that winsome young Scotchman, David Gray, 

“ ’Twas not a life, 

’Twas but a piece of childhood thrown away.” 

KEATS TO A FRIEND. 

Naples, Nov. 1, 1820. 

My Dear Brown : Saturday we were let out of qua- 
rantine, during which my health suffered more from bad 
air and the stifled cabin than it had done the whole 
voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I 
am well enough this morning to write you a short, calm 
letter — if that may be called one in which I am afraid to 
speak of what I would fainest dwell upon. As I have 
gone thus far into it, I must go on a little ; perhaps it 
will relieve the load of wretchedness that presses upon 
me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will 
kill me. My dear Brown, I should have had her when I 
was in health, and I should have remained well. I can 
bear to die — I cannot bear to leave her. Oh God ! God ! 
God ! Everything I have in my trunks that reminds me 
of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining 
she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagin- 
ation is horridly vivid about her — I see her — I hear her. 
There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to di- 
vert me from her for a moment. This was the case when 
I was in England : I cannot recollect, without shudder- 
ing, the time I was a prisoner at Hunt’s,* and used to 
keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then them 
was a good hope of seeing her again. Now — O that I 
could be buried near where she lives! I am afraid to 
write to her — to receive a letter from her : to see her 
handwriting would break my heart — even to hear of her 


Leigh Hunt. 


828 


LOVE IN LETTERS. 


anyhow, to see her name written would be more than I 
could bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do ? Where 
can I look for consolation or ease ? If I had any chance 
of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through 
the whole of my illness, both at your house and at 
Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing 
me out. When you write to me, which you will do im- 
mediately, write to Rome ( poste restante ) — if she is well 
and happy put a mark thus -|- : if — * * My dear 

Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I cannot 
say a word about Naples ; I do not feel at all concerned 
in the thousand novelties around me ; I am afraid to 
write to her. I should like her to know that I do not 
forget her. Oh! Brown, I have coals of fire in my breast: 
it surprises me that the human heart is capable of bear- 
ing and containing so much misery. Was I born for this 
end ? God bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and 
George and his wife, and you, and all I 


COLONEL BECHI. 


Among the many prisoners taken by the Russians in 
Poland, in 1863, was Colonel Stanislas Bechi, a Florentine 
in the National Army of Poland. The subjoined exquis- 
itely simple and pathetic letter was written by him to 
his wife Giulietta immediately before his execution, on 
the 16th of December. It is translated from UEco 
d’ Italia , in which it was published a short time after the 
gallant and unfortunate soldier’s death. 


COLONEL BECHI TO GIULIETTA BECHI. 

My Poor Giulietta : When you receive this letter 
your unhappy Lao will have ceased to live, for he will 
have been shot by the Russians. I bless you, together 
with my beloved children. Death inspires me with no 
fear; I weep only that I die in a foreign land, far from 
those I love, and unable to embrace them for the last 
time. You are now a widow; but I would counsel you 
not to marry again, unless you should consider it neces- 
sary for the interests of our children so to do. And my 
little ones now are orphans, and by my fault ! May God 
have mercy on my soul ! I forgive my enemies with all 
my heart ! 

My Giulietta, my Guido, my dear Eliza, I shall never 
see you again ! Adieu ! adieu ! Embrace for me Fanny, 
Mamma, Arthur, Massimo, and Fanny’s children. Bid 
farewell to your father and all my friends. 

I die for having stood firm at my post, when all, or 


330 


LOVE IN LETTEBS. 


nearly all the other leaders had fled to foreign countries. 
I have given my blood for Poland; may Poland not 
abandon my family in its misery. 

I send you a lock of my hair, damp with the sweat of 
death. 

I hope you will receive my watch, my ring, and the 
locket with your hair. I bequeath these as an inher- 
itance to my dear Guido, together with my decorations. 

I have no more than three hours to live. Courage, my 
beloved Giulietta, we shall meet again in heaven ! Pray 
for my soul ! My last thoughts are upon God, and upon 
you, whom I bless. May the blessing of one at the 
point of death bring you happiness ! 

Farewell! farewell! A thousand last and tender 
kisses to you, my Giulietta, to my little ones, and to all 
my other relations. 

Wioclaweck, 16 December, 1863, 

At a quarter before seven in the morning, 

Thy husband on the verge of death, 

Bechl 


THE END. 


INDEX 


Abbotsford 

Abelard, Pierre 

Addison, Joseph 

Alcaforada, Marianna D’ . 

Almeida, Duke D’ 

Andromache 

Arcadian-days 

Ashton, Sir Walter 

Aspasias and Phrynes. . . . 

Au Grandval 

Bacchus and Ariadne 

Bacon, Lord Francis 

Bannockburn, Field of 

Barras, Count de 

Beaufort, Duchess of 

Beaumont and Fletcher . 

Bechi, Giulietta 

Bechi, Stanislas 

Berkeley, Earl of 

Berkeley, Lady Henrietta. 

Bernard, St 

Blackwood, Captain Henry 

Boleyn, Anna 

Bonnie Jean 

Bouverie, Mrs 

Brentano, Bettine 

Bristol, Earl of. 

British Museum 

Brown, Charles A 

Buccleugh, Duke of. 

Buckingham, Marquis of. . , 

Burke, Edmund 

Burnet, Gilbert 

Burnham Thorpe 

Burlington, Lord 

Burns, Kobert 

Bute, Earl of. 

Byron, Lord 

‘ ' Cadenus and Vanessa ” . . 
Campbell, Lord Frederick. 
Carlyle, Thomas 


PAGE 

296 

.... 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 109 

175 

108 , 109 , 110 , 111 

118 

178 

5 

48 

233 

221 , 222 

177 

43 

281 

289 

256 

43 

329 , 330 

329 , 330 

150 

150 , 151 

10 

276 

35 , 36 

282 

256 

258 , 259 , 264 , 265 

47 , 48 , 50 

36 

326 , 327 , 328 

294 

45 

254 

187 

274 

209 

281 , 282 , 283 , 284 , 285 , 286 , 287 

189 

282 , 295 

160 , 161 

255 

268 


m 


Index. 


Cabtebet, Sir G 

Castbo, Marchioness de. . . . 
Catherine of Braganza.. . . 

Chamilly, Mare'chal de 

Charles, Prince 

Charles Second 

Cheapside, London 

Cheswick, near London. . . . 

Christiana, of Sweden 

Christ’s Hospital 

Clarinda 

Clogher, Bishop of 

Coleridge, S. T 

Conde, Prince of. 

Congreve, William 

Conway, W. A 

Coulanges, Madame de 

Covent Garden 

Cowslip Green 

Cromwell, Bichard 

Cromwell’s Soldiers 

D’Alembert, Jean le Bond. 

D’Albon, Countess 

Danton, George J 

Deffand, Madame du 

Denis, Abbey of St 

Diderot, Denys 

Dingley, Mrs 

Dives, Sir Lewis 

Donegal, Lady 

Dorchester, Lord 

Downshire, Lord 

Dunmore, Countess of 

Edmonton 

Edward Sixth 

Elizabeth, Queen. 

Ellis Collection. 

Epictetus 

Epistol® Ho Elian® 

Epithalamium 

Evremond, St 

Falernian Wine 

Fanshawe, Lady Anne 

Farragut, Admiral. 

Faulkner’s Journal 

Foscolo, Ugo 

Fouche, Joseph 

Francis First 

Frankfort on the Maine. 

Franklin, Benjamin 

Fulbebt, Canon 


101 , 114 

123 

99 , 100 

108 , 109 , 110 , 111 

45 , 47 , 48 , 50 , 52 , 53 

99 , 100 

107 

315 

54 

107 

282 , 283 , 284 , 285 , 286 , 287 

161 , 162 

312 

55 

218 

247 , 252 , 253 

92 , 98 

212 

255 

99 

157 

219 , 222 

231 

268 

232 

12 

219 , 220 

161 

48 

164 

188 

298 , 299 , 304 

308 

312 , 314 

42 

42 , 43 , 44 , 52 

48 

187 

49 

48 

55 

253 

157 

274 

172 

315 

290 

42 

258 

323 

10 , 11 


INDEX. 


333 


Gambles, Admiral 

Garrick, David 

Gay, John 

George First 

George Third 

Gentle Elea 

Gifford, William 

Gildas, Abbot of St 

Goethe Johann, W. M . 

Gondamer, Count 

Goodenotjgh, Mrs 

Grammont, Duke de . . . 

Gray, David. 

Greenwich 

Grey, Lord 

Grignon, Madame 

Gilbert, M. de 

Guildhall Chapel 

Hamilton, Sir William . 
Hamilton, Lady Emma 

Hanover Square 

Harbeck, Mrs. Elvira. . 

Harcourt, Lord 

Hardy, Captain T. M... 

Hazlitt, William 

Heloise 

Henrietta Marie 

Henry Eighth 

Herbert, Lord 

Highland Mary 

Hogarth, William 

Hood, Thomas 

Horse Guards 

Hotel des Invalides . . . 

Howell, James 

Hume, David 

Hunt, Leigh 

Hutchinson, Lucy 

India House 

Infanta of Spain 

Isola, Emma 

James First 

Jefferson, Thomas .... 

Jeffrey, Lord 

Johnson, Esther 

Johnson, Samuel 

Josephine, Empress 

Jura Mountains 

Keats, George < 

Keats, John 

King, Kufus 


256 

254 

187, 209 

175 

189, 255, 308 

313, 320 

325 

13 

240, 266, 259, 265, 266, 267 

45, 47, 48 

257 

108 

327 

42 

160, 151 

54 

•• 233 

107 

275 

275, 276, 277, 279 

208, 314 

.3 

216 

276 

• • • 320. 321, 322 

. . . . 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 

45, 53 

35, 36, 42, 43 

35 

282 

315 

312 

175, 314 

291 

*45,* 46,50,' 5l‘, 52, 53 

35 

327 

157 

qi o 

. .* .* .* .* * .* * . . . . *. . . 45, 46, 47 

313, 314 

52, 157 

323 

326 

160 

247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 254 

. . . . 289, 290, 291, 292, 293 

268 

326 

325, 327 

256 


334 


INDEX 




King’s Bench 

Kingston, Duke of 

Klopstock, Frederick., 

Ladies’ Library 

La. Fayette, Madame de 

Lamb, Charles 

Lamb, Mary 

Lauzun, Duke of 

L’Enclos, Ninon de 

Lenormand, Madame 

Le Sage, Alain 

L’Espinesse, Julia de 

Lettres de Femmes Celebres 

Lockhart, John Gibson 

London, Bishop of 

Love Lyrics 

Lumley, Miss 

Mackintosh, Sir James 

McLehose, James 

Maintenon, Madame de 

Malmaison, 

Marcel, Priory of St 

Mead, Joseph 

Mirabeau, Comte de 

Mirabeau, Marquis de 

Mitre Lane, London 

Moller, Meta 

Monnier, Marquis de 

Monnier, Sophia de 

Mora, M. De 

More, Hannah 

More, Martha 

Morning Chronicle 

Morrison, Mary 

Montagu, Edward W 

Montagu, Lady Jemimah . . . . 

Montagu, Lady M. W 

Montesquieu, Baron 

Moxon, Edward 

Murray, Lady Augusta 

Musee, Fran^ais 

Naples, Queen of 

Napoleon First 

Nelly, Madame de. ... 

Nelson, Lord 

Nelson, Mrs. Horatio 

Nile, Battle of 

Norfolk, Duke of 

Notre Dame 

Odes oe Sappho, 

Orange, Prince of 


150 

187 , 188 

240 , 241 , 242 , 243 , 244 , 245 , 246 

182 

54 

312 , 313 , 320 , 321 

313 , 320 

93 , 95 , 96 

54 , 55 , 92 

289 

49 

231 , 232 , 233 

55 

296 

256 

282 

244 , 225 

35 , 92 

282 

54 

290 

13 

45 , 48 

268 , 269 , 270 , 271 , 272 

268 

320 

240 , 241 , 242 , 243 , 246 

268 

268 , 269 , 271 , 272 

233 

254 

255 

256 

282 

187 , 188 , 189 

101 , 102 , 103 , 104 

.... 187 , 188 , 189 , 209 , 210 , 217 

238 

312 , 313 

308 , 309 , 311 

14 

276 

.... 268 , 289 , 290 , 291 , 292 , 293 

54 

274 , 275 

279 

274 , 277 

296 

290 

315 

109 


INDEX. 


335 


Oxford, Lord 255 

Paladins of France , * * ’ 291 

Paraclete, The 9, 12, 13, 14, 15 

Paris Exhibition 290 

Parr, Catherine 42 

Pepys, Samuel 99, 101, 104, 106 

Pere la Chaise 9 ? 14 

Philander and Sylvia 150 

Philip Second 42 

Piozzi, Gabriel 247 

Piozzi, Mrs 247, 248, 249, 250, 251, 252 

Polwarth, Barons of 294 

Ponta, Count de 100 

Pope, Alexander 9, 13, 209, 210 

Popes Gregory and Urban. . 60 

Porteous, Beilbey 254 

Portinggall Diamond 52 

Quarterly Review 325 

Quincey, Parish of 14 

Racine, Jean 110 

Raleigh, Sir "Walter 43 

Raquideau, M 289, 290 

Revolutionary War 323 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua 254 

Richardson, Samuel 240 

Richelieu, Cardinal de 53 

Rochester, Earl of 99 

Rogers, Samuel 247 

Roucy, Charlotte de 15 

Rousseau, Jean Jacques 219 

Royal Marriage Act 308 

Russell, Lady Rachel 157, 158, 159 

Russell, Lord William 99, 157, 158, 159 

Sacharisa 172 

St. George’s Church 308, 313 

St. Patrick’s Cathedral 160 

St. Paul’s Church 107 

St. Vincent, Earl of 274, 276 

Salick Law 49 

Saulsbury, John 247 

Sandwich, Lady 105 

Savage, Sir Thomas 46 

Scarron, Madame 54 

Schiller, Frederick 240 

Schomberg, Marshal de 108 

Scott, James Hope 296 

Scott, Lady, of Abbotsford 294, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, 301 

Scott, Mary Monica Hope 296, 297 

Scott, Mrs. Hope 296 

Scott of Harden 294 

Scott, Sir Walter 282, 294, 295, 296, 297, 299, 300, 301, 302, 304 


836 


INDEX. 




Scurlock, Mary. 

Seaton, Josephine 

Sevigne, Madame de 

Sevigne, Marquis de. . . . 
Seymour, Lord Thomas. . . 

Shakespeare, William 

Shelley, Percy B . 

Shepherd, Miss 

Sheridan, Thomas 

Sidney, Algernon 

Simon, Mdmoires de St 

Spectator 

Spencer, Edmund 

Steele, Sir Richard 

Stella 

Sterne, Lawrence 

Stewart, Dugald 

Steward, Mrs 

Stoddart, Sarah 

Sussex, Duke of 

Swift, Jonathan 

Sydney, Lady Dorothea 

Tallyrand, Perigord 

Tatler, The 

Temple, Sir William 

Theresa, St 

Thompson, Horatia Nelson, 

Trafalgar, battle of 

Treyiso, Dukes of 

Turenne and Vauban 

Twickenham 

Vanessa, 

Vanhomrigh, Esther 

Varina 

Vatican Library, 

Venus and Adonis 

Victoria, Queen 

Voland, Sophia 

Waller, Edmund 

Waryng, Jane 

Washington, George 

Webster, Daniel 

Webster, Fletcher 

Wellington, Duke of 

Westminster Abbey 

Westminster Hall 

White’s Chocolate House 

Willis, Nathaniel P 

Wilson, James Grant 

Wurtemburg, Prince of 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas 


... 175 , 199 
... 323 , 324 
65 , 92 , 93 


43 , 224 

326 

322 

162 

99 

108 

175 , 177 

43 , 108 

175 , 176 , 181 , 184 , 186 , 191 

160 , 161 , 162 , 163 , 173 

224 , 225 , 227 , 229 , 230 

294 , 295 

106 

320 , 321 

308 , 309 311 

160 , 161 , 162 , 163 , 166 , 169 , 172 , 173 

172 

280 

175 

161 

10 

276 

274 , 277 

289 

291 

209 , 210 

160 , 161 , 162 

161 , 168 

160 , 163 , 165 

35 

177 

308 

219 , 220 , 222 

172 

160 

294 , 323 

323 , 324 

323 

294 

274 

150 

176 

4 

2 

255 

35 





























































































